Something Broken
by GhyllWyne
Summary: Explores the effects of TRF on Sherlock and the people who care about him. Missing scenes through TEH. Varying POVs are noted in chapter titles.
1. The Fall - part 1

To say that they had underestimated Moriarty was a masterpiece of understatement. It had taken the man less than 24 hours to execute a plan that was elegant in its simplicity, and seemingly irreversible. Mycroft's countermeasures, carefully worked out to cover every eventuality, looked like the clumsy fumblings of an amateur by comparison. Moriarty had identified every trap they'd set for him and turned each one against them. Events were coming together with what looked to be unstoppable momentum.

Destroying his reputation was a fait accompli. In the morning, the article that Rich Brook had given to the reporter would be published. The truths Mycroft had provided to Moriarty as bait would prove the lie. The final blow had come when Moriarty walked into the reporter's flat as Rich Brook, and Sherlock saw doubt in John's eyes for the first time.

"There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to-" Images flash and overlap in his mind, and he sees it all as if it's already happened. In a way, it has.

Moriarty had promised this ending the first time they met.

"Sherlock?"

"There's something I need to do."

"What? Can I help?"

"No, on my own." He leaves John standing in front of the reporter's flat with Moriarty's 'proof' in his hands.

Nowhere in Mycroft's elaborate scheme had the name Molly Hooper come up. It's ironic that she may now be his only hope of surviving the next 24 hours.

Molly comes through the darkened outer lab on her way home. He sees her from the corner of his eye, and waits until she has her hand on the doorknob. "You were wrong, you know."

She gasps and spins toward the sound.

"You do count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." He turns and begins to walk toward her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Tears begin to fill her eyes. "What do you need?"

He stops directly in front of her. Close enough to touch. "You."

Even in the low light, he recognizes the look that flashes briefly in her eyes. He seems to inspire this same expression whenever he talks to her, and it's mildly frustrating that he's never been able to categorize it, not even to identify it as pleasure or distress. A hybrid, perhaps, but he has no idea why it's there at all.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need a body that I hope you have in your morgue."

"What body? I don't understand."

"The body would have many physical features in common with me, and should have been brought in within the past 24 hours."

Her eyes widen. "A man was brought in just this morning. Drugs overdose. When I saw him, I..." He can read this expression easily. Pain. "For just an instant, I thought it was you."

He takes her gently by the shoulders and feels her tension vibrate beneath his fingertips. "Do you trust me enough to do exactly as I ask without question? Lives depend upon your answer."

"Please tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

"I can't tell you why, but I need to disappear, and I need everyone to believe that I'm dead."

She studies him for a long moment. "Sherlock," she begins softly, "I've heard the rumors. No one who really knows you will believe what Sergeant Donovan is saying about you. No one who counts."

He releases her shoulders and breaks eye contact to hide his exasperation. He doesn't have time for this. "That's just a small part of it, Molly, and I can't tell you any more than that. Please, can you promise to help me do what I have to do?"

"You know that I will."

"Tomorrow morning, I need you to bring the body to the first floor window facing the ambulance station, then wait for my signal and throw it down to the pavement. I will send two men with clothing for you to dress the body in, and I need you to provide them with a pint of blood."

She's staring at him. "I don't understand."

"And unfortunately, there's no time to correct that. There will be others on the ground who will orchestrate the rest, but none of it will work without you. Moriarty needs to believe that I've killed myself. I need him to see me do it."

She frowns. "See you do what?" And then her eyes widen with realization. "You're going to make him think you jumped from the roof?"

"Actually, I am going to jump, in full view of Moriarty and anyone he might have keeping an eye on us. I just don't plan to die, if I can help it." He smiles, then adds as an afterthought. "And John will witness it from the ground."

She straightens a bit and looks around as if she's just realized Sherlock is alone. "Where *is* John?"

"Not sure. I'll get him here on time, but obviously not until everything is in place."

Her eyes narrow. "He *does* know what you're planning."

"No, of course not."

She looks up at him, and then does something that seems to surprise her as much as it does him. She takes his hands in hers and looks directly into his eyes. "You can't." Her voice is low and urgent. "Don't you know what it would do to him? Watching you kill yourself?"

Her reaction is a surprise, and her touch is distracting. "He's going to wish he had tossed me off the roof personally," he states the obvious, quirking one corner of his mouth up at the thought. "I'm going to confess that the rumors are all true, and that I've been taking advantage of his trust throughout our entire association."

She lets go of him and takes a step backward. She's looking at him as if she's never seen him before in her life.

He adds quickly, "I'm not actually a fraud, Molly. I'm just going to tell him that so..." He trails off at her horrified stare. Ironically, this is the very situation he always relies on John to untangle. Human expectations are largely a mystery to him. He needs John to interpret the cues he misses and supply the appropriate response. Without John, he feels disconnected, never more so than at this moment.

"You are going to tell him you lied to him, and then you're going to throw yourself from the roof while he watches." She says it slowly, in disbelief. "I know you're missing some of the parts the rest of us have, but you can't possibly think that this is okay. How would you feel if he killed himself in front of you?"

It literally takes his breath away with an emotional punch that he actually feels land in the center of his chest. He looks away quickly to hide his reaction, grateful for the dim lighting. It takes a moment to trust his voice. "I expected more of you, Molly. Don't romanticize a business relationship. Leave that to the tabloids and the office rumor mill. He'll be fine. I've seen to it, in fact."

"Unless you plan to tell him you're not really dead, nothing else will matter. Why can't you just tell him what you're going to do and let him help?"

"Because the people I need to deceive will be watching him closely, and he's too easy to read. He needs to believe I'm dead in order to make them believe it, too."

She looks at him for a long moment, and he reads disappointment and sadness in her eyes. "You really don't feel anything, do you? We're all just tools, even John."

"No, Molly, that's not true. If this weren't so important..." She turns her face away from him, looking down at the floor. He cups her chin with his fingertips and gently raises it so she's looking at him again. "I told you that lives depend on your answer. Molly, if any part of this fails, John will almost certainly be killed right along with me. I have to do this. There is no alternative."

"How can you be sure I won't give anything away? Why can you trust me but not John?"

She's surprised him again. "Why would anyone expect you to have any special reaction to my death?"

She looks away quickly and takes a long breath. "So," she says softly, face still averted, "you're trusting me with your life and with John's life because I'm not important."

He turns her chin up to face him again. "No, Molly. I'm trusting you with our lives because *they* think you're not important."

She holds his gaze, trying to read him. "I'll do whatever you need me to do, for as long as you need me to do it. And I'll keep your secret. But you're making a terrible mistake with John, and I'm afraid of what it's going to do to both of you when you realize I'm right." She turns toward the morgue doors. "Come with me."

She unlocks the door and flips on the lights, heading for the wall of drawers where the new arrivals are kept waiting for autopsy. She walks to the far end and pulls out the drawer on the bottom tier, then stands back.

He walks over to the opposite side of the body and pulls back the sheet. The resemblance is enough to fool a frightened child, and apparently enough to startle Molly at first glance, but it won't fool John if he's allowed to see it for very long, even from a distance. "The clothes will help," he says, more to himself than to her.

"Sherlock, I am begging you," she says softly. "John would die before he'd tell them anything. Please don't do this to him."

He sees tears in her eyes and wishes again that John were here to explain her reactions. "It's not a question of what he would say, Molly. It's everything else, and I can't take the time to convince you. You have to believe what I'm saying. John will die if you don't help make this happen." It's not strictly true, but she needs a reason that counterbalances her concern for John's feelings.

She pushes the drawer closed without replacing the sheet. "Rigor will be gone in the next few hours. I'll keep the body at room temperature in the morning to make the impact more believable." She looks up at him. "Who will be coming with the clothes?"

He's relieved that her demeanor has returned to the business-like efficiency he needs for this. "I'll text you the information when I have it. I need to get in touch with my network, but I needed you first. Nothing works without you." He smiles.

Her expression is unreadable. "I'll be back by six in the morning. Have them come here."

She walks away from him, goes to the door, and leaves without a backward glance.

No one understands, and it's largely John's doing. The stories he posts on his blog have apparently become reality to everyone, embellished and romanticized fiction based on a few facts that have somehow turned the two of them into folk heroes. How it has also made them appear to be soul mates, or lovers, depending on whom you ask, is a mystery. John Watson is an empathetic man by nature. He exudes concern for his fellow man, and it's apparently been interpreted by everyone, including Molly Hooper, as some special affection for him personally. It's true that John has killed to protect him, but he would have done the same for anyone. They'd known each other less than 48 hours when John had killed the cab driver to stop Sherlock taking the poison pill. It wasn't personal. John is simply a good man doing good work, and he knows Sherlock too well to feel anything more than respect for Sherlock's abilities. He's too decent a human being to accept the rest of the package, but he does an admirable job of tolerating it in the name of helping the clients Sherlock chooses to take on. He'll be shocked by what he's going to see in the morning, but no more than he would be for anyone.

He needs to bring Mycroft up to date, and the phone is too risky to use for more than arranging where to meet.

"Come to my home," Mycroft insists. "I'm on my way there now."

It's thirty minutes farther from Bart's than the Diogenes club would have been, and it's time he can't afford to waste. He uses his phone in the cab to reach a few key players from his network who will gather the rest. He doesn't give specifics, just tells them where to be and what to bring. They know not to ask for more detail than he offers.

He finds Mycroft in his study sitting in one of the leather chairs that bracket the fireplace. The fire burning on the hearth and the green-shaded banker's lamp on his desk are the only light sources in the room.

"Please sit down," Mycroft gestures to the other chair with a half-filled glass of dark golden liquid. It sloshes in the glass from the movement, catching the firelight. "Would you like a Scotch?"

He drops into the chair. Mycroft knows he doesn't drink, so he ignores the question. "Moriarty expects me to kill myself, and I've worked out how to do it. He's Rich Brook, by the way. So much for your intel." He sits back to enjoy the reaction.

Mycroft sets his drink on the table next to his chair with deliberate care, then sits back and folds his hands in his lap. "Kill yourself, how?"

"I'm going to meet Moriarty tomorrow morning on the roof of Bart's Hospital for our final showdown. On a pre-arranged signal, your men will arrest him and hold him at a safe distance while I jump from the roof in disgrace. He won't know that I've landed on an airbag. He'll believe I'm dead, obviously, and I can go after him and his network with impunity." A thought occurs. "Why don't you seem surprised about Rich Brook?"

Mycroft shifts his gaze to the fire. "John Watson came to see me a little while ago at the club."

"You *didn't* tell him."

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, then turns back to him with the familiar penetrating gaze. "He was quite...worked up. I half-expected him to attack me for betraying you. He's extremely devoted."

"You make him sound like a pet."

Mycroft shrugs. "Not an altogether outrageous metaphor."

"I'm going to arrange it so he's there to see me jump without actually seeing me hit the ground. His transparency will help to confirm that I'm dead."

This earns him a disapproving frown. "Is that actually necessary?"

"Of course, it's necessary. We've talked about not letting him know where I've gone and how to keep him from looking for me. This is the perfect solution."

Mycroft's gaze turns thoughtful and unfocused. "I wonder if we might be giving too little weight to his...affection for you. Actually making him witness your suicide may prove to-"

"Now who's being ridiculous?" he cuts in, suddenly angry without knowing precisely why. "I expected you, of all people, to see this for what it is."

Mycroft is unruffled by his outburst. "I think for the first time, I actually do."

"Do what?"

"What was your one and only requirement for accepting this assignment, even beyond any guarantee that you would come back alive? Please, refresh my memory."

"I asked you to watch out for John while I'm gone. What is your point?"

"No, Sherlock. You made me take an oath on my life that I would keep him safe, and you promised to collect on that oath with your bare hands if anything happened to him." Mycroft smiles faintly. "Not quite the same thing, is it?"

"What is your point?" he repeats it slowly, enunciating each word.

"My point, brother dear, is that you're too close to the situation to judge it accurately. John's openness may be a potential liability, but you're overlooking the danger he may pose to himself if he feels guilt over failing to prevent your death."

He closes his eyes and reviews what he knows of John's overdeveloped need to save the world. "I am forced to concede that you may have a point. I will make certain that John has no chance of stopping me, and that he knows he did everything he could do. There will be no reason for blame or regret. I'm also going to tell him that I'm a fraud and that I've deceived him the entire time we've known each other. He will feel foolish for having believed me, and he'll despise me."

"You think just telling him so will make him believe it? He's very loyal."

The memory of John's reaction to Rich Brook being Moriarty flashes in his mind. John's doubt was perfectly rational, but the hurt he feels now just remembering it is not. "I think he's halfway to believing it already."

"I think you may be overlooking one other point," Mycroft says as he lifts his glass for a long sip.

"And what is that?"

"Guilt doesn't require a rational basis."

Sherlock lifts his hands from the arms of the chair, then drops them. "If you have an alternate plan, I'm listening."

Mycroft drains his glass and places it back on the table. "Give me the details."

John has been texting him and leaving messages on voice mail for the past two hours, all of which have been ignored in favor of using every remaining moment to cement the plans. Mycroft's driver dropped him off at Bart's in time to meet with his network. The most difficult requirement had been the airbag, and the one they found was dangerously small. It would have to do. Overlooking the fact that he had never in his life made a jump of five stories, the airbag itself would probably be fine. Probably. On the plus side, the smaller size would make it easier to both inflate and deflate.

Molly answers his text with a terse "ok" when he sends her the names of the two men who will be helping her with the body in a few hours.

It's time to bring John back into the picture.

John answers his text immediately. He's on his way to Bart's and will be here in twenty minutes. Nothing to do now but wait and try not to second guess himself. There is still a significant possibility that Moriarty has something entirely unexpected in mind. He may refuse Sherlock's invitation. He may refuse to disclose who else has the computer key, if he's sold it, no matter what they're willing to do now to make him tell them. Given their spectacular lack of success in anticipating him to this point, anything is possible.

He's sitting on the floor, back braced against the steel cabinets, bouncing the squash ball he'll be using in a few hours to stop the pulse in his wrist. More proof for John. He closes his eyes, and waits.

The pre-arranged call rings on John's mobile at exactly 8:00 in the morning. John has dozed off sitting on a stool, his head resting on his arms, the phone next to him on the counter. He answers it, still groggy. A moment later, he's wide awake and moving. "Oh, my God. Right. Yes, I'm coming."

Here we go. "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson. She's been shot."

"What? How?"

"Probably one of the killers you manage to attract. Jesus. Jesus, she's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." John turns to the door and puts his hand on the knob.

He keeps his voice and his face absolutely neutral. "You go. I'm busy."

John turns back to him, clearly stunned. "Busy?"

He needs to appall John sufficiently to make him leave. "Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to... Doesn't she mean *anything* to you? You once half-killed a man for laying a finger on her!"

He shrugs. "She's my landlady."

John stares at him. "She's dying, you *machine*!"

He's surprised by how hard this is becoming.

"Sod this. Sod this," John seems to be talking to himself as he shakes his head in disbelief. "You stay here, if you want. On your own." He turns back to the door and yanks it open.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." It's the first thing he's said in the past few minutes that's actually true. He's a little surprised that John is buying this so readily, but it reinforces what he told Mycroft. John will believe his confession.

John is halfway out the door. "No, *friends* protect people." The door slams behind him.

A moment later, his mobile chimes a text notification. Moriarty is waiting for him on the roof. He picks up his coat, puts the squash ball in the pocket, and walks out of the room.

* * *

End of Chapter one

_Author's Notes 2: Even the briefest of comments will be appreciated. Each one is worth its weight in gold._


	2. The Fall - part 2

Chapter 1-Addendum

John's round trip from Bart's to 221B should be 26 minutes, plus 90 seconds to discover that Mrs. Hudson is fine and rush back out to hail another cab. It's been 11 minutes since he stormed out of the lab, so Sherlock expects him back in just under 17 minutes. Moriarty will want to savor his victory for at least that long. The plan is right on track.

Two of Mycroft's men meet him in the stairwell, one floor below the roof. He verifies that their headsets are communicating with Molly Hooper and with Sherlock's people on the ground. When he hears Molly's acknowledgment, the tremor in her voice is noticeable, but she has backup in the form of two beefy assistants he sent to help her throw the body from the window. Sherlock can hear everyone, and they can hear him.

He had not wanted Mycroft's help beyond the two men in the stairwell needed to arrest Moriarty at the right moment, but Mycroft had threatened to abort the entire plan if he didn't accept sniper coverage. There are three of them positioned in top floor windows in the building across the street.

Sherlock opens the door and steps out onto the roof. Moriarty is sitting on the edge of the roof wall, mobile phone on one outstretched palm. The tinny music coming from it is the ringtone he remembers from the first time they met. The symmetry is appealing somehow. The end echoing the beginning.

He listens to Moriarty rant and gloat, and waits for the precise moment to drop his bombshell. He reveals the 'code' that Moriarty showed him, tapping his fingers in the same pattern behind his back as Moriarty circles him. The effect on Moriarty is immediate and expected.

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now shall we finish the game?"

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."

Knowing it's expected of him, Sherlock grabs Moriarty by the coat collar and hauls him to the edge of the roof, his fury only partly feigned. In his earpiece, he gets the elapsed time since John's departure. Sherlock needs to jump in 8 minutes.

Forced off-balance, leaning backward over the edge of the roof, Moriarty drops a bombshell of his own, and everything changes. "Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."

His shock is real, and it freezes him momentarily. In his earpiece, rapid fire orders from all stations. Mycroft's voice overrides the chatter. "Sherlock, we're already looking for the spotter. Stall him."

They have to take the threat seriously, and it means there has to be a spotter somewhere within sight of the roof, waiting for him to hit the ground so he can signal the assassins to stand down. If they don't find him in time, he will see the airbag, and the game is over.

Seven minutes.

He walks to the front of the building and steps up on the ledge. Moriarty stands on the roof behind him.

He asks Moriarty for a moment of privacy, stalling for as much time as he can. Seconds tick by, and Moriarty is getting restless. Then Mycroft's voice in his earpiece. They've found the spotter. "We need to let him see you on the ledge, and then on the ground after the airbag is removed, but not in between. We need to get into position to grab him at the same instant we take Moriarty."

Sherlock smiles in relief. It occurs to him that the plan would have failed if Mycroft hadn't insisted on adding the three extra men. He will never hear the end of it, but they`re back on track. He laughs for Moriarty's benefit, then hops down from the ledge.

Moriarty spins on his heel. "What? What did I miss?"

Five minutes.

Now it's Sherlock's turn to circle his prey. "I don't have to die, as long as I have *you*. It's a bluff that Moriarty will certainly see througbh. He's already proven that nothing they can do will make him talk.

Sherlock realizes a moment too late that he's overplayed his hand. Moriarty smiles. Thanks him. *Believes* him. Holds out his right hand. Sherlock takes it in a handshake without knowing why. Moriarty's palm is cool and dry, like the skin of a snake.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out," he says quietly. "Well, good luck with that."

Moriarty suddenly has a gun in his left hand. He pulls Sherlock close, puts the gun barrel in his own mouth, and pulls the trigger.

Sherlock stumbles backward several steps in shock as voices shout and overlap in his earpiece. "Gun! Man down! Man down!" And Mycroft overrides them, shouting his name. "Sherlock!"

Two minutes.

Focus. The spotter still has to see him jump, or the shooters will carry out their assignments. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed.

"I'm okay," he tells Mycroft, and heads back to the ledge.

"In position on the spotter," a man's voice says in his ear. "We're go."

Sherlock steps up on the ledge just as a cab pulls up below and stops. He takes out his mobile and presses speed dial 1. He sees John exit the cab and bring the ringing phone to his ear. He needs to get John into position as soon as possible to allow the team to get the airbag inflated and into position without John seeing it. His own voice is still shaky from the shock of Moriarty's completely unexpected suicide, and it helps motivate John's cooperation.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

He looks down to check the airbag. They're going to tell him when it's ready. A verbal signal backed up with hand signals from the ground. Just to make sure before he lets gravity take over.

John's voice is concerned, but calm. He says that he doesn't believe Sherlock is a fraud. He refuses to accept that he's been played for a fool all this time. He doesn't know yet that in a few moments, he won't have a choice.

It's critical that he accepts Sherlock is dead. He'll follow him otherwise, and that can't be allowed to happen. John is a soldier, but he's a doctor, not a fighter. He wouldn't last a month on this assignment, not even with Sherlock to watch his back. It's a solitary mission for a reason.

The emotion in Sherlock's voice is real now. It's dawned on him that this may be the last time he sees John Watson for a very long time. It may be the last time he sees him for the rest of his life.

"Good bye, John."

He drops the phone to the roof. In his earpiece, he hears confirmation of what he sees on the ground. The airbag is ready.

He raises his arms, and falls forward. John screams his name, his control disintegrated in an instant.

The impact knocks the wind out of him. Hands pull him off the airbag, and the hastily-rehearsed dance begins. He switches places with the body, feels the pint of blood Molly gave them soak his hair and the pavement under his head.

He takes the squash ball from his pocket and presses it into his right armpit, then extends his right arm out on the pavement so it's the first- and hopefully the only- part of his body John will be able to touch.

"Please, he's my friend. I'm a doctor. Please, let me through." John's voice, barely recognizable, pleading over and over.

More than shock. Something deeper.

Sherlock's eyes are open wide and staring because that's what Molly said he would look like if he fell that far onto pavement. They've streaked his face with blood, and it's gotten into his mouth. Nauseating. Metallic.

He can see John now, though not in focus because he can't blink. John's hand reaches out and clamps over his wrist, and he can feel the tremor of shock vibrating through his fingers. Then the hand is pulled away, and John's knees give out. He slumps to the pavement.

This isn't the way it's supposed to be.

The rattle of wheels. Footsteps. Hands lift him onto the gurney as John's choked voice whispers, "Jesus, No. God, no."

They turned his head away from John when they dropped him on the gurney, and he closes his eyes tightly to hide tears he doesn't understand.

Notes: I know it's short and probably should have been part of chapter one. I need to stop here and switch gears for a bit. This scene kills me every time I watch it. Writing it wasn't any easier. Chapter 3 this weekend. Things always go faster with feedback. - GW


	3. Lestrade POV - John

Chapter 3

_Notes: I listened to Coldplay's "Forget but Not Forgive" the whole time I was writing this, if you'd like a little soundtrack background. There are lots of vids on YouTube._

The sudden absence of normal background noise in the bullpen outside his office gets his attention first. No conversation. No papers rustling or file cabinet drawers banging. Even the phones are quiet. For a moment, he wonders if he's gone deaf.

Greg Lestrade gets up from his chair and goes to the door. It's standing partly ajar, and he pulls it open. Sally Donovan looks his way. The expression on her face puts a cold lump of dread in the pit of his stomach. "What's going on?"

She comes over to him, eyes downcast until she's standing right in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"What?"

"We just heard a radio call from Bart's. He... they said he jumped off the roof."

"That's impossible. Who made the ID? How do they know it's him? I-" He realizes he's babbling, and that he's gripping the doorframe for support.

"I don't know. Somebody who knows him. There didn't seem to be any doubt." She raises her chin and crosses her arms. "Sort of confirms what I've been saying." She turns and snaps her fingers at Anderson who is standing by her desk studying a morning paper. "Bring me that."

Anderson looks physically ill as he hands it to her and walks away. She folds it back to the front page and holds it up for Greg to read the headline. "Fake Psychic Invents Own Foe," she parrots as he scans the image of Sherlock in the deerstalker that they had bought for him as a joke. Moriarty's picture, taken from the paper's coverage of the court fiasco, is below it.

Everyone is looking at him now. Sally waits a moment longer, then turns and heads back to her desk. He closes the door. After a few deep breaths, he goes to the phone and dials Molly Hooper's extension in the morgue.

She answers on the first ring, and the tremor in her voice makes his question almost redundant, but he asks it anyway. "Molly, this is Greg Lestrade. We're hearing something about a suicide at Bart's that I need to confirm. Do you know anything about it?"

There's a long pause. "It's him."

Lestrade closes his eyes. "You saw the body? You're certain it's Sherlock."

"Yes," she says softly. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. His brother is on his way over." Another pause. "Somebody needs to talk to John."

_*Oh, Christ.*_ "He doesn't know yet?"

Her voice hitches. "He...he saw it happen." A moment later, the receiver clicks as she hangs up.

_*He saw it happen.*_ What state must Sherlock have been in to kill himself in front of his best friend? Maybe he didn't know John could see him. But as soon as that hope dawns, he knows it can't be true. If John could see Sherlock on the ledge, he was close enough to be heard. He would have said and done everything he could to stop him. Sherlock knew John was there when he jumped.

His throat suddenly tightens with pity, and he blinks to clear his vision. John isn't just a grieving friend, he's a witness who will have to be interviewed as soon as possible. No one must be allowed to do that but him.

He intercepts the team assigned to the call. Two men Greg has luckily not offended recently. "Just let me handle the interview. I promised the victim's next of kin that I'd take care of this." He forces a smile. "You don't mind missing another grieving relative call."

Of course, they didn't mind. Greg isn't sure how they'll feel about it when they hear how unpopular he's personally become in the past 24 hours. Doing a favor for a pariah can have unpleasant consequences to one's one career.

"Thanks, this means both of us can go check out the second one on the roof. You don't happen to know his relatives, too, do you?" The partners share a wink.

Greg's mouth goes dry. "A second suicide?"

"Yeah, and get this. The caller said the guy's picture is in the paper this morning right next to the jumper's. Sounds like we won't have much trouble with the ID or the motive. We'll stop by your office later to get your notes."

Moriarty was on the roof when Sherlock jumped? Greg can't wrap his head around the implications. Did Sherlock kill Moriarty, and then jump? Did Moriarty force him to jump? Did John know Moriarty was there?

John is the key, and God knows what condition he's in.

He doesn't think of Mycroft until he's halfway to Baker Street. He fishes the phone from his pocket and presses a speed dial. Mycroft answers on the third ring.

"Yes?" There's not the slightest hint in his voice that anything out of the ordinary has happened.

"It's Greg."

"Yes, I was just about to call you. I wonder if you wouldn't mind handling the initial contact with John Watson. As a personal favor."

"I'm already on my way. That's why I was... Christ, Mycroft. I don't know what to say." His own voice is tightening again, maybe because Mycroft's isn't.

"There's no need to say anything at all. I bear you no ill will. This was inevitable. I think we both know that."

_*No ill will.*_

"I can't speak for John, however," Mycroft continues. "You may want to prepare yourself for some recrimination. He's going to feel guilt and will need to deflect it. You will make a convenient target."

Greg swallows, trying to loosen his voice. "Yeah, I get that." Pause. "Do you know they found a body on the roof? They think it's Moriarty."

"It is. I don't suppose we'll ever know what it was all about now."

Greg swipes at his suddenly-dripping nose with the heel of his hand. "Right. I'll be in touch." He ends the call.

_*Bloody heartless bastard*_

He parks in front of 221B and stares at the door for a long moment. The last time he was here, he was hauling Sherlock down the stairs in cuffs. He hadn't stayed in custody very long, of course, but still. That was their last contact. It had to be one of the last memories Sherlock had when he'd decided to take his own life. Maybe even one of the reasons he'd done it?

Wallowing in regret is pointless and destructive. He pushes it out of his mind and shoves open the car door. After a brief moment of indecision, he presses the bell for Mrs. Hudson.

She's composed but has obviously been crying. "Please, come in." She leads him to her tidy kitchen on the ground floor and shuts the door behind them. "Please tell me what happened. John came home an hour ago, and he couldn't... He couldn't say." She glances at the ceiling. "I know it's something horrible, but..." She looks at Greg. "He's dead, isn't he?" Her eyes fill with fresh tears.

"I'm sorry. Yes." His voice finally cracks, and she pulls him into a hug, her face pressed to his shirt and her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

He holds her close, staring into space while she cries. His own grief is on hold, but he knows it will be ferocious when he finally lets it go. He can't do that now. He doesn't have the right.

She pulls away from him after a bit and reaches for a tissue from a box on the counter. "I'm sorry," she says softly, dabbing at her eyes. "I know you're feeling terrible, too, but I can't let John see me like this." She looks at the ceiling again. "Please help him."

He doesn't know if that last part is directed to him or to God. Probably both.

"I'll do my best."

The climb up the familiar stairs stabs at him with every step. When he reaches the top, the door is open. It's always open unless no one is home. Greg takes a step inside.

Across the room, facing the door, John Watson is sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"John?" He takes a few more steps into the room, but John doesn't acknowledge him.

He slowly crosses to John's chair and lowers himself carefully into it. "John, it's Greg."

John's gaze is unfocused. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, his fingertips moving absently over the worn leather. Raw pain is coming off of him in waves. The anguish in his eyes is something that Greg will see in nightmares for the rest of his life.

"I thought if I sat here long enough, I might be able to figure it out," John says in a voice Greg wouldn't have recognized if he wasn't looking at its source.

He looks at Greg. "I don't understand."

Greg leans forward, hands clasped together and dangling between his knees. "I know, John. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

John gives him a brief watery smile. "You can tell me he's not really dead."

His throat clamps down, and he swallows hard. "I wish to Christ I could, mate. I really do."

John nods, and his gaze drops to the arm of the chair he's stroking with his right hand. "You get a different perspective, sitting here. He saw the front door. The exit. My back was always to it." His focus drifts off again.

"John, I know it's hard, but I need to ask you some questions." He clears his throat. "I need you to tell me what happened."

For a moment, John doesn't react. Then he turns slowly to Greg with a humorless, frightening smile. His voice is deadly calm. "What happened? You know the answer, Greg. You and your colleagues helped Moriarty drive the only person I care about in the world over that ledge. And I got to watch it from the ground."

The dark rush of emotion in John's eyes actually makes Greg pull back. He unclasps his hands and braces himself on the arms of the chair. Mycroft was right. Greg is the last person John needs to see right now. "John, I'm sorry, I-"

But John's gaze has turned inward. He leans back in the chair, his head tipped back against the cushion. "I left him alone."

His voice is a choked whisper so full of pain and regret that Greg can't help reaching out to touch his hand. His fingers are icy.

"I called him a machine, and then I left him alone." And suddenly, his forehead folds into a frown. His eyes crinkle in thought. "The call wasn't real."

"What call?" This is the closest to normal John has looked, and Greg is determined to reach him while he can.

John sits up and really looks at Greg for the first time. "We were in the lab, and I got a call. He said he was a paramedic and Mrs. Hudson was being taken to hospital for multiple gunshot wounds." He closes his eyes, brow creased in thought. "He *knew* it wasn't true. But how?" His eyes snap open.

Greg waits a moment for the rest. "John?"

John sits forward, alert and focused on Greg. "Has anyone checked the roof? He must have been meeting Moriarty and wanted me out of the way. The call was a setup." He gets up and starts to pace. "He didn't kill himself! Moriarty must have been up there holding a gun on him the whole time. That's why he wouldn't let me come up. That's why he tried to make me believe he was a fraud." His eyes are almost feverish. "Fucking bastard." Then, to Greg. "You have to see if there's any sign of him on the roof. He didn't kill himself. Moriarty killed him!"

Greg feels his heart sink. "John," he begins carefully, "there's a body on the roof with a bullet in his head. We're pretty sure it's Moriarty."

The change in John is dramatic and immediate. Before Greg can react, John's knees buckle and he drops to the floor, kneeling with his hands on his thighs and his head bowed.

Greg moves quickly and squats in front of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other tries to lift John's chin so he can get a look at his eyes. "John, talk to me."

He pushes Greg's hand from his face, and brushes the other from his shoulder, keeping his head bowed. "Please get out." His voice is a choked, painful whisper, teetering on the bare edge of control. "Please."

Greg's control is failing now, too. "I can't leave you alone like this."

John shakes his head slowly, side to side, over and over. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." He swallows hard. "He was up there alone with that maniac. Protecting me." The pained whisper is filling with tears. "I heard it in his voice, but I didn't listen. I should have known. I should have known."

It's all finally too much. John pulls in a deep shuddering breath, and then another, and his fragile grip on any semblance of control disintegrates. He covers his face with both hands and his body folds in half when the first sob wracks him.

Greg vision is a blur of tears. He shifts to his knees, pulls shaking shoulders toward him and wrap his arms around what's left of John Watson. There is only a moment of resistance before John collapses against him and lets the grief take him.

End of chapter three


	4. Sherlock POV - Molly

Summary: This chapter begins where Chapter 2 ended. We're back to Sherlock's POV a few moments after he hits the airbag. Molly comes to the rescue, one more time. -GW

The hard part is over, but staying dead until Mycroft comes to get him is proving to be trickier than expected. The outside entrance to the basement was unlocked, as arranged, but the unused storage room where he stowed his change of clothes is not. He can't go back outside, obviously. His homeless network team dispersed immediately to avoid being pulled in by the Yard as witnesses. He's on his own.

The basement entrance opened into a corridor, and the storage room is just 10 feet in, but this is as far as he can go. He's stuck in the open with blood soaking most of his hair, and dried streaks of it all over his face. With all their planning, they had overlooked the simple precaution of a few wet wipes in his pocket. It hadn't occurred to them that he wouldn't be able to get into his changing room immediately without being seen. The turned up collar won't hide anything, but the scarf might. He takes it off and stretches the width as far as it will go, then wraps it over his head and across the lower half of his face. Not exactly low profile, but it will probably hide most of the gore if someone happens by.

He tries Mycroft using the disposable phone he gave him, but the call goes directly to voice mail. The corridor he's stranded in is not normally busy, but it _*is*_ used periodically throughout the day. He can't afford to wait. He dials Molly's extension in the morgue.

"Molly Hooper's desk."

It's a woman whose voice he doesn't know. That means she probably won't know him either, but he pitches his voice half an octave higher than normal, just in case. "I'm looking for Molly. Is she available?"

"She's busy at the moment. May I say who's calling?"

"Tell her, it's Lowell," he says, using the first name of the man whose body they, and Moriarty, used to stand in for him.

Molly comes on the line almost immediately. "What's wrong? Why are you calling me?" Clearly, she picked up on his code.

"I'm impressed, Molly," his voice is back to his normal register. "And I'm stuck. The storeroom is locked. I can't get in."

Silence for a beat. "I'll be there in two minutes."

It's closer to five minutes when she comes around the corner, out of breath and focused on a large ring of keys in her left hand. "Sorry, I couldn't find the janitor." She continues sorting through the keys, slips one into the lock on the door, and clicks it open.

Footsteps suddenly approach from the opposite side of the corridor junction, too close and too fast. He quickly pulls Molly inside with him and closes the door. There are no windows in the storeroom, and he can't turn on the light until their position is secure, so the only illumination comes from the light seeping around the edges of the door. He can make out Molly's silhouette, but no detail. He assumes she has the same limited view of him, so there's no point in placing fingers to his lips to hush her, and making the sound itself is counterproductive. He wishes he'd had time to either leave her in the corridor, or tell her not to make any noise.

The scarf is smothering him with a combination of blood and wet wool. He slips it off and stuffs it into his pocket. The coat and scarf and everything else he's wearing will remain with Mycroft. He won't see any of it again for a very long time.

The footsteps stop just outside the door. A moment later, they hear the scratch/pop of someone striking a match followed by the satisfied exhale of cigarette smoke. Molly sniffs her distaste, and Sherlock nearly 'hushes' her in spite of what he'd told himself a moment earlier.

He knows precisely how long it takes to sneak a cigarette, and it's eight minutes more than he can afford to waste standing here in the dark. He's about to try calling Mycroft again when loud voices farther down the corridor seem to startle their squatter. They hear him swear softly and run out the door Sherlock had come in. They wait to see which direction the approaching voices will take. When it's clear that they're heading away, he hears Molly exhale.

"Cover your eyes," she whispers, "and I'll turn on the light."

He hears the click, and squints into the sudden glare. A few seconds later, Molly gasps.

He realizes how he must look. "I'm all right, Molly. It's the blood you gave us to use, not mine."

There's a sink in this room, which is one of the reasons they chose it. "I need to clean up."

"My God," she says softly. "This is what you let John see?"

He frowns at her, surprised. "What did you think the blood was for?"

She shakes her head. "I knew what it was for, I just didn't think it would be so..." She closes her eyes for a moment. "John saw you like this. Up close."

He frowns again, but this time it's at the memory she's just conjured up. It wasn't supposed to be like that. What he could see and hear of John's reaction was not what he expected. It was-

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. Up close." He moves to the sink and turns on both taps. There's a soap dispenser attached to the wall that probably has-

"Is he all right?" Molly has followed him to the sink. She's standing just behind him on his right, and she waits until he looks at her in the mirror before she continues. "I saw him. From the window." Her eyes begin to glisten, on the brink of tears. "I _*tried*_ to tell you."

He shuts off the water, impatient with her mystifying persistence. "You tried to tell me _*what*_, exactly?" He turns to face her.

"He could barely stand, Sherlock. I *knew* he would react this way, and I tried to tell you." She looks away, but not until she adds, very softly, "You broke him."

He quickly turns away, back to the sink and his interrupted task. The hot water tap is putting out cold water, but he doesn't have time to wait for a more comfortable temperature. He needs to remove the blood from his face and get dressed before Mycroft gets here. And he certainly doesn't have time to indulge in this pointless exercise. "Don't you have to get back to your lab?"

He bends over the sink and scrubs at his face with wet hands, then straightens to assess his progress in the mirror. Molly meets his gaze, and her expression confuses him. She seems vaguely pleased. "What?"

"You didn't look away fast enough. I saw your eyes."

He's exasperated now. "Molly, I really don't have time for this." He pulls a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and starts blotting the water from his face.

She looks down at the floor. "No, you don't have time for any of us. I know that, but-"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"-John isn't one of _*us*_. He deserved better than what you just did to him."

He pulls the plastic bag from the top shelf where he left it earlier, and pulls out a large hooded sweatshirt and anorak. From the corner of his eye, he sees Molly watching him.

"I saw your eyes," she repeats. "You didn't believe me about John before, but you do now. You heard him scream your name when you jumped. That's what it sounds like when you rip out someone's heart."

_*I heard you, John.*_

He pulls the mobile from his pocket and checks the time. "Molly, I appreciate your help more than you know, but Mycroft will be here in less than ten minutes."

She's studying him the way she did in the lab yesterday.

_*You look sad, when you think he can't see you.*_

"We're not giving up on you, Sherlock. No matter how condescending and mean-spirited you get. But you have to stop pushing people away before you really do end up alone."

She walks to the door and puts her hand on the knob, then turns to smile at him. "Please come back safe." She opens the door and heads back to the lab to pick up whatever task he interrupted.

_*That's what it sounds like when you rip out someone's heart.*_

He takes off his coat and carefully folds it into a neat bundle, sleeves tucked in so they won't crease, and slips it into the plastic bag, trading places with the anorak. He pulls on the sweatshirt and raises the hood to cover his hair, then puts on the anorak. There's probably blood on his coat, and it will have to be professionally cleaned. He has two more that are seemingly identical, but this is his favorite. He should have worn one of the others for this. Removing the blood will erase the scents that have accumulated. Faint traces of tobacco smoke and Irene Adler's perfume. And John's cologne. Their coats always end up next to each other somehow: hanging on the rack in the hall, or tossed on a chair. Or side by side on their respective owners. He's never checked, but he imagines John's coat has a bit of Sherlock's scent, too.

_*I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.*_

He can't correlate the data. John not only believed him about not caring enough for Mrs. Hudson to rush to her death bed, he had hated him for it. There was no mistaking that. How does that fit with his emotional meltdown less than an hour later? Guilt? Regret for the fact that their last contact had been so contentious?

He can't imagine any two people with less in common than Mycroft and Molly, but they both had raised the same concerns about John watching him jump. With Molly, he had chalked it up to her natural sentimentality. When Mycroft said the same thing last night, it should have raised a red flag.

He has questions that need to be resolved before he can leave London. Mycroft won't like the delay, but a few more days won't make much difference now. Moriarty is dead, and his criminal network isn't likely to accomplish much without him. He just needs to dismantle it before some enterprising mastermind-wannabe slips in and takes over.

_*I saw your eyes.*_

He will stay long enough to make sure John is all right.

The phone vibrates in his pocket. It's a text from Mycroft telling him he's late. He doubts Mycroft meant to be funny, but it makes him smile.

The late Sherlock Holmes slips out of the room, out of the building, and officially out of his life.

End of Chapter 4


	5. John's blog - Letter to Sherlock

Summary: John starts gathering his thoughts to write a eulogy, and it turns into a letter to Sherlock. "I know you're dead, for Christ's sake, but that doesn't mean I believe it." -GW

I knew you'd have the last word. It's your defining characteristic. I'm pretty sure you heard me at the time, but I told Irene Adler the same thing. I said you would outlive God so you could get in the last word. Ironic, that. Or maybe tempting fate. I wish I'd never said it.

I can't think of you in the past tense, by the way, so I'm not going to blog you that way, either. This is just for me, so my rules are the only ones that apply. You don't get a vote.

I'm seeing Ella again, as of this morning. She has a one-track mind when it comes to therapy. I don't know if that's just in my case, or if she always prescribes blogging. I suspect she just hates typing and prefers that her patients keep their own notes. (and yes, Ella, I know you're reading this and my statement still stands, no offense) Whatever the reason, that's what she wants me to do. Something about stream-of-consciousness writing having the ability to bring out what the patient can't say out loud. Since I seem to have lost all verbal ability when it comes to you, I have to admit she may have a point.

There's another reason I'm doing this. Your brother arranged services for tomorrow, and they're expecting me to say a few words. "Eulogy" is the wrong term, but I don't know what would be more appropriate. Something less Victorian. More epic. I'm reasonably certain that I won't be able to deliver a word of it out loud, considering that I haven't even been able to say your bloody name yet without breaking down. You've reduced me to cliche.

I'm so pissed off at you that I want to punch everyone who comes within reach. Or maybe I'm just pissed that they're all walking and breathing and you're not. Do you have any idea how much it hurts just typing that? You're not breathing. I know you're dead, for Christ's sake, but that doesn't mean I believe it.

Greg Lestrade probably saved my life, for better or worse. He had the misfortune to be the first person to cross my path in those first few hours. I guess he was here to do the witness interview but never quite got the chance. Instead, he got to watch me come apart, and then he stuck around to pick up the pieces. You really need to do something about not being able to remember the man's name. He's a true friend, not just a resource. You took *him* down with this, too. He's aged ten years in the past two days. I might have had something to do with that myself, though. It had to be tough to watch a grown man go to pieces like that, but he refused to leave me alone. I wasn't thinking about my dignity at the time. I am now, though. Not sure I'll be able to look him in the face for a while.

I don't remember much about the last time I saw you. I'm not sure I want to, but I probably don't have a choice. It will all come back eventually. There are some highlights that I can't get out of my mind. I can't go there right now. Not if I want to get this done. We'll save it for the next installment.

I do have some experience with counseling grieving survivors. I worked with soldiers in the field who had lost a brother in battle. Not a blood relative, you know what I mean. Men form close bonds when they spend so much time together facing the daily possibility that one of them could be killed at any moment. Doing their best to keep that from happening. It's so easy to spout platitudes and rationalizations. The by-the-book approach they teach us in med school. Psych 101. But it's all just empty, meaningless crap. No one can possibly understand what it feels like to watch someone you care so much about die and not be able to do anything to stop it. I thought I understood, but watching you stand on that ledge, I didn't believe you would jump, and when I saw you drop that damn phone I knew and there was nothing I could do to save you. It was too goddamn far to survive and I knew you were dead before I touched your hand. They wouldn't let me get any closer but I saw your face. For a few seconds, I thought you actually killed me, too. I never knew that a broken heart actually comes with physical pain. Did you know how much this was going to hurt?

Sorry, had to take a break. I said I wasn't going to write about that. I should have listened. Now, where was I? Oh, right. The futility of grief counseling. (sorry again, Ella) The problem is that there are no words in any language that will help. I think Greg's approach is the only one that could have worked as well as it did. The only thing I heard him say, and he said it a lot, was "I'm sorry." You can attach whatever meaning you need to hear from those two words. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry I can't help you. I'm sorry your best friend was such a selfish, arrogant bastard that he would throw himself off a building before he'd let you help.

Goddammit. I'll never get through this.

Mike Stamford called this morning to offer his condolences. It reminded me that he's the reason we met. I don't know how I could have forgotten that part. He brought me to Bart's because you had said you were looking for a flatmate. Two minutes in, I got my first glimpse of that impossible brain of yours. And let me just say for the record that I will never believe you're a fraud. You could shout it from the rooftops (sorry I couldn't resist a little gallows humor) and I wouldn't buy it. Not for one second. And I never doubted you, not even when Moriarty showed up at that gossip monger's flat as Rich Brook. I know you thought I was beginning to wonder, and that hurt. I've been wracking my brain trying to understand what I might have done or said at any point in our relationship that would make you think you could tell me such an outrageous lie and have me accept it.

Was the phone call a test? Jesus, please don't tell me that you set up that bloody stupid phone call about Mrs. Hudson being shot just to see how I would react to you pretending not to care. I hate what I said, and it kills me that it was the last time we were together, but I was worried about her and you weren't making any sense. I was angry because you were suddenly someone I didn't recognize, and it scared the shit out of me.

You're not a machine. I didn't mean that. I picked the one word that would hurt the most because that's what people do when they lash out. They attack the most vulnerable spot they can think of. I've never believed your Spock act, but you apparently thought I did. That damned word probably confirmed it, and I can never take it back. What's worse is that I'll never have another chance to say the things I should have. You think there will always be time. That's the problem with suicide. It's so damn final. You cut off all my options right along with yours. I wish I could ask you why.

Ella asked me to tell her all the things I wanted to say to you but never did. I can't. It would feel like I was betraying a confidence. The first person who should hear those things is you. I'm going to try to write what I couldn't say.

I hope you're listening.

I never thanked you for saving my life. I don't mean the times you literally saved me, starting with Moriarty's poolside bomb. I'm talking about saving me from the life I was mired in when we met. I don't know how I would have ended up if I'd stayed the way I was. One thing is certain. I would have missed knowing my best friend, and I wouldn't trade the time I spent with you for anything, not even if I'd known how it would end. I can promise you one thing, though. If I *had* known, you wouldn't be dead, because I would have stopped you, no matter what it took.

I can't imagine what could have made you do it. I know what everyone thinks, but they're wrong. We would have proved it was all a lie. You have to know that. No matter how airtight the case might have looked, it was a lie, and lies can't be sustained. Is that why Moriarty killed himself? To take away your last chance to clear your name? He was crazy enough to do something like that, but why would that make you give up? I don't understand.

There's a lot I don't understand.

Why did you tell people you're a sociopath? You're not, if there's any chance you didn't actually know that already. Look up the definition. There's nothing about you that fits. You have (or feign) aspects of personality disorder, but that pretty much goes hand-in-hand with your level of genius. You're terrible at reading social cues. I think you passed that duty to me early on, and I didn't mind. It helped justify my presence because God knows you didn't need me for anything else. What was it you called me? Something about me not being a light source but a good reflector? I gather that meant I'm your sounding board, and I'll agree on that point. But you bounce ideas off me and carry on entire conversations when I'm not even in the building, so I'm not sure you need my actual presence now that you have the avatar. Am I better in person? I hope you can still talk to me like that. I can't stand the thought that you're alone.

Stop it.

Moving on.

I didn't realize how close to coming apart you were over the Gigantic Hound until you hit me with that poison dart about not having any friends. You apologized, sort of, but your were apologizing for the wrong thing. You were sorry for hurting me, not taking back what you said. You honestly don't think you have any friends, other than me, do you? You're so wrong. Greg Lestrade loves you like a son, despite the godawful things you say to him on a regular basis. You think he just tolerates you because you solve his cases. He appreciates you for that, but he loves you in spite of it Your genius comes with some pretty unbearable arrogance. It's justified arrogance, but you could tone it down a bit. I think I've helped you with that. Greg has said he sees a difference in you since you took up with me, and it's for the better. I believe you wanted to change. I'm really sorry we won't get to keep working on that. I'm going to write again after the services tomorrow and I'll bet the turnout will prove my point. I'm going to give you a headcount. Feel free to apologize again.

Your obsession with The Work to the exclusion of all else is the biggest sham of all. What is the point of stopping serial killers if you don't care about saving the victims? You claim that the pure process of solving the puzzle is what attracts you. You don't care that there are actual human lives at stake because caring won't make saving them any easier. Bollocks. If all you wanted was a puzzle to solve, you could apply your genius to mathematics. Or physics. Or any other pure science without any human involvement. But you don't. And you don't even take credit for what you do, so you're not doing it for glory. You are doing it for the victims.

I think I know why you needed the sham. It's not that you have no heart. I've seen your heart. It's huge but it's as fragile as mine. Maybe more. It's not that you don't care about people, it's that you care too much. You can't allow yourself to think about that because that kind of emotional involvement is crippling. I just wish you were able to balance the two instead of spending so much time denying that you're human. Thank God for it. Without that heart, you're Moriarty. Think about it.

Taking a deep breath now. I saved the hardest part for last because it's going to hurt like hell. Not because of what I'm going to tell you, but because I'm only saying it now that it's too late. I'm sure you heard me having to correct assumptions on a regular basis. People, including Mrs. Hudson, insist that you and I are lovers. I have never understood why, and I imagine my denials met with rolled eyes. Maybe they just see how close we are and can't grasp that such a bond could be anything but romantic. I'm offended by that, not because of any moral issues, or because I think it insults my manhood. It's just not accurate.

I've never in my life loved another human being the way I love you. That's not going to change. I will never know if hearing me say it would have kept you off that ledge. I would give anything for the chance to find out.

-John Watson

End of Chapter 5

Notes: There will be a part 2 after the services. John did promise, after all. -GW


	6. Molly POV - Sherlock

Something Broken 6

Summary: Molly Hooper POV -A visitor, an explanation, an apology, and a request.

She doesn't jump out of her skin this time. In fact, hearing his voice come out of the shadows is something she thinks she's going to keep expecting for a long time after it stops happening.

"Molly, we need to talk."

He is next to a pillar in the underground car park that many of the Bart's employees use on the late shift. He's chosen a spot that is outside the reach of the widely spaced ceiling lights, as well as close to an exit. It's still a risk, being here where he might be seen.

"I thought you were already gone." She walks toward him and stops an arm's reach away. This close, she can tell that his hair is either slicked back or cut short, and automatically reaches up to find out which. "You cut your hair." It feels no more than an inch long. "Let me see."

She takes his coat sleeve and tugs him out into the light on the exit side of the pillar, still blocked from view of anyone entering the way she came. When she gets a good look at him, she gasps softly. The short hair isn't what shocks her. His skin is as brown as a beachcomber's. It's such a contrast to his normal coloring that she doubts she would have known him if they had passed one another on the street in broad daylight. But it's his eyes that are most surprising. They're dark as a night sky, disturbing in a way she can't pinpoint.

"I...I don't think I would have recognized you. How did you...?" She gestures at his face in general.

He smiles a little ruefully. "My brother's idea. I barely recognize myself in the mirror."

"You look..." She shakes her head. "Different."

"It's all more or less temporary. I just need to not look like myself until I get out of the country."

"Well, it works." Looking into those black eyes is simply eerie. The coloring and the cheekbones together make him look foreign and dangerous.

"I seem to want something every time I cross your path. I'm afraid that's the case now, too."

"You know I'll do whatever I can." The list of things she can do is getting smaller all time. He used up most of her reserves with the lie she must keep telling John Watson.

"I don't want you to agree until you know what I'm asking, Molly. I've let you do that too much."

She wonders for a second if she muttered that last thought aloud. "I will do whatever I can."

He nods, apparently satisfied. "I'll be leaving the country in a few hours, and I don't know how long I'll be gone. When we asked you to keep my secret, we didn't tell you what a long term commitment it was going to be, and I'm sorry for that."

"Do you think I would have refused if you'd told me the truth?"

"That's not the point. I owed you the truth, and I'm apologizing for keeping it from you. And I'm sorry for doubting your instincts about John. In my own defense, I've always relied on John for that. Nobody to cue me this time."

She knows that's true, and it always makes her sad. John used to step in and translate *her* for him, too, but she does that for herself now. She thinks she may be the only one he can relate to without John's intervention. "Sometimes I think you see what you want to see. You know how much John cares about you. I know you do."

"It's just costing him more than I expected, and I regret that. There truly was no alternative, and I need you to believe that."

She looks away from those disconcertingly bottomless eyes for a moment. "I do believe it, but it doesn't make facing him any easier." She looks back at him and stares silently for a moment. "I'm having a hard time getting used to your eyes now. Sorry." *Moriarty. Those are Moriarty's eyes.*

"I know. Contact lenses. I look like Moriarty."

She actually shivers. "That's the second time you've read my mind in the past few minutes. Is this a new talent, or something you've been doing to us all along?"

"If I could read minds, we wouldn't be standing here and I wouldn't be dead. I don't need to read your mind, Molly Hooper. You go where your heart takes you, and I don't mean that as a criticism. The world could use more of you."

"You hate that about me."

"I don't hate anything about you."

The way he's looking at her is suddenly so focused and intense that she has to turn away. "What do you need me to do?"

"I saw John today at the cemetery."

She turns back to him, mouth open in surprise. "Did you talk to him?"

"No, of course not. I knew when he was going to the grave this morning, and i got there ahead of him. I watched from a safe distance."

There is no need to ask what it was like. She heard it in his voice. "I'm sorry."

He looks away for a moment. Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a mobile phone. "I need you to keep this somewhere safe. It's as untraceable as I could make it, but I need you to promise you'll only use it in an emergency."

She accepts the phone without looking at it. "What kind of emergency?"

"I need to know if anything happens to John. I can't afford the distraction of wondering how he is. I can't do my job unless I'm sure that someone will tell me what I need to know. You're the only person I can trust to tell me the truth."

She is trying to imagine what more could happen to John than what Sherlock has already caused, with her help. The only thing she can come up with, she refuses to say out loud. "If things get that bad, you know all I would have to do is to tell him the truth."

"You would be putting his life in even more danger if you did that, Molly, and I need you to understand why. If the people I'm going after knew I was alive, they would go after him to draw me out. They would come after everyone I care about." He touches her hand.

*He means me*, she realizes, and wonders if he knows what he just said. "H-how will I know when to call you?"

"You'll know for the same reason you knew how John would react to all of this in the first place. You were right then, and you will be right the next time. Trust your instincts." He cups her chin with the fingertips of his right hand until she is looking directly into those dark eyes. "I do."

They hold this way for a long moment. "Why do you trust me?" She believes that he does, but she wonders when it happened. Until very recently, whenever she tried to strike up even the most mundane conversations, he always reacted with weary impatience, generally with an insult, clearly intent on shutting her up. He was disdainful, condescending, and rude. She can't grasp how that translates into the trust he has in her now.

"I trust you because you're the most purely honest person I've ever met."

"How do you know that? How do you know that I'm not the most dishonest person you've ever met, and just really good at it?"

"How is it that you can see me when no one else can?" His voice is very soft.

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

He gently lifts her chin with two fingers, and the corners of his mouth turn up in that shy smile she's never seen him share with anyone else. He holds her gaze for a moment, and she wishes she could see his own eyes. But even through the dark facade she can see his decision the instant he makes it. As he leans down, his lips close in on hers, and her eyes drift shut. At first, it's just the lightest touch. He brushes his lips over hers from side to side, and pulls back a bit. She parts her lips to pull in a breath, and he's back, the soft pressure increasing as he brings his hands up to the sides of her face, cradling her so tenderly that it tightens her throat. The contact feels innocent and almost chaste. And then she feels him take a breath, and the tip of his tongue touches her upper lip, delicately tracing the underside of it. She parts her lips and meets him with her own, a tentative lick that makes him gasp very softly and then pull her into his mouth with a soft, sweet suction that sends an electric charge to her toes. She slips her hands inside his coat and curls her fingers in the fabric of his scarf because it's the first thing they touch.

He pulls back and takes a long breath, then rests his forehead on hers for a moment. Then he straightens and tucks her head under his chin, pulling her gently inside his coat. His arms close around her, and she wraps hers around his waist, her ear against his shirt, listening to his heartbeat. She knows she will never feel this safe again, and she never wants to move.

She doesn't know how much time passes before the sound of a door opening and closing on the other side of the floor, followed by footsteps, makes Sherlock's posture stiffen. They freeze for a moment, listening. A short time later, a car door opens and closes, and they hear the engine start up. The auto exit is on the opposite side of the building, so they're safe, but the mood is broken.

She steps back and looks up at him. "You have to go now."

He cradles her face with both hands for a moment, his eyes locked on hers. "Be safe," he says softly. A moment later, he turns and disappears into the shadows.

She waits, motionless, until the exit door closes. Then she slips his phone into the pocket of her coat and walks to her car.

End of chapter 6


	7. Sherlock POV -Mycroft

After his meeting with Molly Hooper, Sherlock walks to the main road and simply waits for Mycroft's men to appear because it will be faster than hailing a taxi. He's been more or less successfully dodging them all day, but he's said his goodbyes now. It's time to go.

The black Mercedes turns the corner half a block down and glides to a stop in front of him. When the back door opens, he gets in and shakes off the raindrops before he realizes it's not Mycroft, but his PA.

"Mr. Holmes, we're going directly to the air strip, unless you have another stop you would like to make?" She glances up at him briefly with just the tiniest smirk.

He leans back against the cushions and closes his eyes. "No more stops."

She immediately returns to her texting, and he's sure this message is to his brother. It's interesting that Mycroft would miss this last opportunity to voice his displeasure over the delay and its consequences. Sherlock postponing his departure to tie up some personal loose ends didn't sit well with his brother.

_*It's a pointless self-indulgence that will cost more than you know.*_

_*Look the other way, Mycroft. It's two days. You owe me far more.*_

There was no point trying to explain. Mycroft was the last person in the world he would expect to grasp the concept of caring for a friend. He had been doing his best to inoculate Sherlock against anything resembling a friendship for as long as he could remember, though it was rarely necessary. Sherlock's personality was generally enough to put off anyone who might have shown interest. Mycroft told him he would never have friends, and could never trust anyone who claimed to be one. When he was a child, his big brother's approval had meant everything to him, and Mycroft had taken full advantage of that fact for as long as he could.

Mycroft is paying for it now, of course, every time he finds himself needing his brother's talents. Sherlock's default response to any request is refusal. If Mycroft happens to catch him in the right mood with a task that carries enough interest to outweigh its source, he gets his grudging cooperation. Even Mycroft knows he made this bed for himself.

Stopping Moriarty was an obsession they happened to share. It was Sherlock's idea to go undercover as a dead man to take the man and his network down. Mycroft provided the intel, contacts, and resources to make it happen. In the heady rush of planning something this bold and complex, it never occurred to either of them that there would be so much collateral damage at home. It's no surprise that Mycroft overlooked this aspect, but Sherlock should have seen at least some of this coming. There's no one on earth he wants to emulate less, and yet he seems to have followed Mycroft down this particular path with every step.

Collateral damage. That's one way of putting it. He wonders what John would call it. Going by what he saw and heard at the cemetery this morning, there may well be no coming back from this. He hasn't quite accepted the possibility that John will never forgive him, but there's nothing to be done about it now. He'll take Moriarty's network down and come back if he can, although that outcome has assumed a lesser importance than it once enjoyed.

There will be consequences for everything he's done, and everything he will do before the mission is accomplished. The price can be as high as it has to be, as long as it ends with him. He's not pretending to be noble, and he's certainly not a martyr, but there's no justice in continuing to inflict pain on the innocent. He's not going to let it happen again.

"Mr. Holmes?" Her tone suggests that this isn't the first time she's tried to get his attention.

He opens his eyes and looks over at her.

She's holding out a file folder with his name on the front. "Mycroft wanted to make sure you review this before you leave."

He takes it from her. "How long before we reach the plane?"

"About twenty minutes."

He opens the folder and flips on the reading light in the overhead panel. It's the same data sheet Mycroft showed him yesterday, but he's added a few handwritten notes to the margins. Some are changes that resulted from the two day delay, underlined pointedly in red. Most are logistical updates necessitated by Moriarty's death. Mycroft's revised estimate of the odds of success is also included, and the trend is definitely downward. Completion of a step does not improve the chances for success on the next. Quite the reverse. Removal of any part of the network will raise the alarm in the remaining sectors, and his chances of maintaining the element of surprise go steadily down. Mycroft is a realist, and he's never wrong. They've discussed the danger before this, but it's a bit different seeing it graphed out.

When he looks up from the file fifteen minutes later, the car is splashing down a gravel road heading toward a lighted single story building in the distance. It's stopped raining, but the headlamps shine through a low layer of fog beginning to form. It's appropriate somehow for his last moments in the real world.

"Yes, sir," the PA says into her phone, then hands it to him. "It's your brother."

He takes it from her and brings it to his ear. "Yes, Mycroft. I read the file," he says without preamble, "including the cheery projections."

"We need to talk."

"I'm listening."

Mycroft sighs wearily into his ear. "No, that is one thing you are most decidedly not doing. I'm waiting in my car up ahead. Please join me." He ends the call before Sherlock can respond.

A few minutes later, the car pulls up next to Mycroft's familiar black Mercedes. The back door opens, and he switches cars, braced for one last lecture.

"Where's the plane?" He can see the other side of the building now, and the air strip is empty.

Mycroft studies him calmly in the dimly lit interior. "Have you finished your extracurricular meanderings, then?"

"You know that I have."

"You went to great lengths to stop my men following you, but you might just as well have provided an itinerary. You've been alarmingly predictable of late."

Sherlock knows that tone too well. Mycroft is about to spring something on him to prove some point he's attempting to get across. This is the reception he was expecting when he got into the car in front of Bart's and found the PA instead of his brother. Late, but not a surprise. "What is your point?"

"You seem to be deliberately trying to sabotage everything we've put in motion, and I require an explanation before this goes any further. Convince me that I'm mistaken."

"Sabotage it how, exactly? What do you think you know?"

Mycroft reaches into a briefcase on the floor without breaking eye contact with his brother. He brings up a folder and opens it in his lap.

Sherlock can see in the dim light that there is a document on top of what looks like a stack of photographs.

"You're clearly having second thoughts. My concern is to what extent those thoughts will continue to adversely affect your decision making."

"I'm not having second thoughts."

"You went to the cemetery this morning when John was there. That fact alone calls your judgment into serious question. Add the fact that you were making no attempt to disguise your appearance and were near enough to be seen, and it amounts to an act of attempted sabotage that would force me to replace any other operative for his own and the mission's benefit."

Sherlock studies him silently for a moment, then holds out his hand. Mycroft gives him the document, closes the file and folds his hands on top of it.

It's a minute by minute account of today, starting with the cemetery visit. Either the surveillance at the cemetery was already in place, or he's less adept at spotting Mycroft's tails than he'd thought. Midway down the page, the audio transcript begins. He looks up at Mycroft. "How did you get this?"

"It's a classified device, but suffice to say that it picks up sound with a laser directed microphone. Very sensitive. It was there to monitor you. We didn't expect John to contribute."

"What were you expecting to hear?"

"Frankly, I was concerned that you might be tempted to say something to John. I'm pleased to have been wrong in that, at least."

He had been close enough to hear a lot of what John said. He is fortunate he didn't hear it all, or he might well have proved Mycroft's concern to be valid. He wishes he hadn't read it.

"I wasn't trying to be seen. Don't be ridiculous." He hands the report back to Mycroft. They obviously knew he was at Bart's. He doesn't need to read more.

"Then pray tell, what were you doing?"

"Something you can't possibly understand. I was saying goodbye."

"And you felt the need to wear the most recognizable clothing you could think of, and place yourself in John's line of sight."

"Pointing out the obvious flaw in your reasoning, he didn't see me."

Mycroft frowns at him. "Pure luck. Please tell me you were not leaving this to the vagaries of fate."

Not consciously, perhaps, but he realizes that may be exactly what he was doing. If John happened to see him, then he would deal with that. If he didn't, then the mission was on as planned. The whole premise was absurd, and yet it could be argued that it was where his mind had been when he did it.

As if following his brother's train of thought, Mycroft says, "If you can't find a logical reason for it, might we conclude that there *was* none?"

"What do you want me to say?"

Mycroft opens the folder, sorts through the contents and extracts two 8x10 photographs. He hands one to Sherlock. The back of the headstone is at the bottom center, and John is the focus. His anguished expression wasn't visible to him this morning. He hands the photograph back to Mycroft.

"I'm aware that he was upset. I was there."

Mycroft hands him the second photograph. "This," he gestures to the image, "is the expression that concerns me, Sherlock. Not John's. Yours."

It's an enlargement of the upper left corner of the previous photo, but focused on his own face as he watched John. He thinks he remembers this moment, actually.

"Unlike you, Mycroft, I am occasionally able to appreciate the effect my actions have on others. What you're seeing is regret, not second thoughts."

"I'm familiar with regret, dear brother. The one I find myself wrestling with now is that I didn't encourage your association with John Watson from the start. It would have been the only way to prevent your pursing the relationship and avoid the damage it's done to what could have made you the most valuable asset MI-6 has ever seen."

"Only you would classify friendship as damage."

"In your case, that's exactly what it is. Convince me that the concern you obviously have for your friend isn't going to affect your actions going forward the way it did today."

"Or what?"

"Or I will send someone else in your place."

This makes him sit up straight. "Idle threats are beneath you. There's no one else you can send."

"Don't flatter yourself. The value you had above any other operative died with Moriarty. You are only marginally more familiar with what his network might be comprised of than any of a dozen other men I could select. Your personal insight into the man himself has no value now."

"You know that's not accurate. No one has the full picture, but I'm ahead of anyone you could find because I know the man who set it up. And while we're exploring motives, would you like me to give my assessment of your own?"

The fact that Mycroft hasn't put away the folder with its remaining contents makes him wonder what else he has. The best defense is a good offense.

"No comment? All right, then I'll start with your interpretation of the look on my face in that photograph. You realize that anything you come up with is entirely subject to your expectations? You've been expecting me to overreact to John's grief all along. You said as much when I set up the plan to have him witness my suicide. I told you it wouldn't be an issue, and it's not. I've spent the day disconnecting from everyone and everything here. The only focus I have now is eliminating a threat that outweighs any personal consideration. Can you say that your desire to send someone other than me is as dispassionate as you would like me to believe, or are you the one having second thoughts?"

Mycroft raises both brows. "Disconnecting? Is that how Molly Hooper would describe it?"

He sees where this is going now. "What? Because I kissed her goodbye? I assume one of those photographs captures the moment? You surprise me, Mycroft. It's not the first time I've kissed her."

This gets him a single arched brow. "This wasn't a brotherly peck on the cheek, but it's not what I'm referring to." He pulls out the photograph that he's probably thinking is his trump card and hands it to his brother.

Molly is looking up at him as she accepts the mobile phone from his hand.

"Sherlock, there is no more dangerous violation of protocol on an undercover assignment than unauthorized communication. Please convince me that you haven't completely lost your sense of self-preservation along with your mind."

"Did you take it away from her?"

"I explained to her the risk she would be placing you in if she contacted you. She surrendered it willingly. Would you mind explaining why you would do something so dangerous? There is no excuse I will accept, but I need to hear what you believe justified it."

"There wouldn't be much point in explaining my motives if you're going to discount anything I say. I will tell you this. If you don't allow Molly to contact me under the specific conditions that I gave her, then I will be forced to contact her from wherever I am. Which do you think will pose the greater risk?"

It isn't exactly an impasse, but close enough. Mycroft regards him silently for a long moment.

"I told you that I would keep track of John Watson for you. You made that condition abundantly clear from the start. I can only infer from your actions today that whatever request you've made of her stems from a new requirement. One that you can't trust me to fulfill. Need I point out that this is the diametric opposite of what you told me you were doing today? Disconnecting, was it?" He sits back, hands folded on his lap. "You leave me with very few alternatives."

"You have one alternative, Mycroft. Bring the plane from wherever you have it stashed and stop stalling."

Mycroft is holding his phone in one hand, looking thoughtful. "That's not quite true. Given the circumstances, my preference is to cancel the mission."

"You can try."

"Now who's making idle threats? The arrangements I've made for you in Romania can be cancelled with a single phone call. The plane obviously is out of the question."

"You can't stop me. All you can do is make it more dangerous for me to proceed. It's your choice."

"What is it that you want her to report to you? And why?"

If John were here, he would have recognized the brotherly stand-off. He'd seen it often enough. He would also know that Mycroft had just blinked.

"I asked her to trust her instincts. That's another concept you can't possibly grasp."

"And if she deems it necessary to contact you, how do you plan to respond?"

This is dangerous territory. Not even Molly suspects why he wants her to tell him if anything happens to John. He's confident that she knows what he means. If John's situation becomes so dire that he takes his own life, Sherlock's response will be to go after the most dangerous network sector he can find, and take as many of them with him as he can manage. It will be his penance.

"I'll come back." He holds eye contact with Mycroft, putting everything he has into selling the lie.

Mycroft is studying him more closely than he can ever recall. Finally, he breaks eye contact and presses a key sequence into his phone, then brings it to his ear. "Hold cancelled." He ends the call and puts the phone in his jacket pocket.

"You'll give the phone back to Molly."

"I never actually took it from her. I wanted to see your reaction."

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"Call her."

He studies Mycroft for a moment. "I believe you."

A moment later, the jet lands in response to Mycroft's orders. As it taxis to the end of the strip nearest the building, Mycroft opens his door, then pauses. "You've extracted a few promises from me. Now I'm going to ask one of you. Unlike yours, mine won't be a condition of your going on this mission."

Sherlock has his own door open, but he pauses and turns to Mycroft. "What is it?"

"Promise that you won't hesitate to let me help, if it becomes necessary. This mission is too important to allow childhood jealousies to get in the way."

If he were in truly dire straits, it's unlikely that he'd be able to contact his brother, but Mycroft knows that. Sherlock isn't sure what he's asking, but it seems a harmless enough promise.

"I promise I'll contact you if I can."

His brother nods. "Thank you."

It starts raining again as they walk across the tarmac to the open door of the jet. Sherlock stops at the foot of the steps and turns to his brother.

"Try not to start any wars until I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." He smiles and goes up the steps before Mycroft can respond.

The attendant pulls up the door and spins the wheel that locks it. Sherlock buckles himself into the window seat on the starboard side of the plane and spots Mycroft standing in the rain, minus his umbrella, as the plane taxis back toward the end of the runway and lifts off into the night.

End of chapter 7


	8. John POV - Mary

"John? You're doing it again, aren't you?" Mary is smiling at him over her shoulder as she rinses plates and utensils for the dishwasher.

This is their first late night dinner. He knew when he agreed to come after his 3-9pm shift that she would be expecting him to stay overnight this time, and he's fine with that. They've been seeing each other for six weeks now. He can't keep leaving her alone in bed with a peck on the cheek.

"Sorry, yes I was." He zones out sometimes, and she usually pokes him in the ribs and teases him about it. "Do you need me to help with anything?"

"Fine time to ask." She smiles at him more than anyone he's ever met.

"I can open a bottle of wine."

She points to the bottle on the counter that they had opened for dinner. "We have to finish this one first. You could grab a couple of glasses."

He takes the bottle and two glasses out to the living room and sets them on the low table in front of the fireplace. They have developed the after dinner habit of sitting on the floor with their backs against the sofa, feet stretched toward the crackling fire while they finish their bottle of wine. It's a comfortable time for talking about things that aren't as easy to bring up face to face. Mary joins him a moment later, and he pours them each a glass, then holds the bottle up to the firelight.

"Looks like about one more glass each."

She takes a long sip and snuggles next to him. "You can have my second glass. I'm already too sleepy to do anything but cuddle."

He chuckles. "Cuddling is fine. It's been a long day."

She smiles up at him. "We'll have more energy in the morning."

They settle into a comfortable silence, Mary's head resting on his shoulder. After a while, he wants to refill his glass, but a glance down at her peaceful expression tells him she's fallen asleep. If he moves, he'll wake her, so he settles back to watch the flames.

He met her, literally bumped into her, one afternoon six weeks ago after a string of happenstance events that reminded him of the way he met Sherlock. Practically everything for the preceding 15 months had reminded him of Sherlock, so nothing new there. They had hit it off immediately, too. It was almost eerie. She's a nurse and that gave them a head start in the small talk department. She's also warm, intelligent, and pretty. They've gone out for drinks or dinner nearly every night for the past month. She seems to be in love with him, and he's in love with the idea of not being alone. They haven't talked about their pasts yet, so she doesn't know about his broken heart although he thinks she might have glimpsed it a few times. He's not deliberately deceiving her, but he's not ready to talk about it.

It's been 16 months, but Sherlock is never far from his thoughts. For the past 24 hours, he's been center stage. Greg Lestrade came by his bedsit yesterday to say hello and drop off a box of miscellany that Sherlock had left in his office over the years. Greg is the only person he's stayed in touch with, and his visits usually stir up more fond memories than painful ones. Not this time. He brought a copy of the DVD he'd helped Sherlock record for John's birthday three years ago. *The uncut version. It's funny*, Greg told him, but he clearly saw the reaction John wasn't quick enough to mask. *Are you sure you're all right? I'm sorry. I should have thought...*

The visit didn't last very long. After Greg left, John played the DVD over and over until he couldn't stand it anymore. Then he'd finished off his bottle of whiskey and passed out on the sofa.

So, his hard won progress has backslid a bit. Mary will help, even though she won't know it. She helps keep him moored to the present, a place he's still not completely sure he wants to be.

The flames have dwindled to flickering licks above the embers, and the room is nearly dark. He's ready to nod off himself when she stretches a bit and lifts her head. "Let's go to bed." She pushes to her feet and then bends down to kiss the top of his head. "Don't make it too long. It gets chilly back there."

"I'll tidy up and be back shortly." He watches her head down the hall and close the bedroom door behind her.

He finishes her wine along with his own, but the alcohol isn't helping. He suddenly wishes he had postponed this night a bit longer. He's been questioning his own motives for getting so attached to Mary and wonders how selfish he can actually be.

He smothers the remaining flames with ashes, then takes the glasses and empty bottle to the kitchen and turns out the lights. After a quick stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth and change into the pajama bottoms she bought for him, he joins her in bed.

She's curled on her side, already asleep. When he gets in next to her, carefully trying not to wake her, she smiles without opening her eyes, then snuggles up behind him and kisses his shoulder. "Mmmm, night, John."

He pats the hand she has curled over his waist. "Good night," he whispers, and feels her relax back into sleep.

He tries to match his breathing with hers in an attempt to relax, but his mind won't settle. The last time he looks at the clock on the bedside table, it says 3:40 am.

_*He's standing in front of the ambulance center at Bart's, frozen in place. Four floors above him, perched on the edge of the roof, Sherlock is calling to him. This time he doesn't have a phone, and both arms hang limply at his sides. His head is bowed, and he doesn't see John looking up at him, struck dumb with the realization of what's about to happen._

_*Help me, John. Please.* There are tears in his voice, and he's leaning forward, looking down at the ground below._

_*Help me.*_

_And then he steps over the edge and falls. John can't move. Can't call back to him. He tries to scream but his throat is as frozen as his legs. The sound of Sherlock hitting the pavement unlocks John's body and his voice. Everything he's feeling pours out in a single word that its target can no longer hear._

_SHERLOCK!*_

"John? John, wake up." She's shaking him, none too gently.

He opens his eyes, heart pounding, the sweat chilling his bare torso. "I'm all right." His voice is choked with tears, and he's shaking. "It's just a dream. I'm all right." He's not sure which of them he's trying to reassure.

She reaches over him for the light on the bedside table, but he stops her hand. "No, please."

"All right," she says gently. She spoons up behind him, her left arm wrapped around his chest and her hand over his hammering heart. Her head rests against his shoulder as she makes soothing sounds, soft murmurs that gradually begin to calm the panic.

The tears he can feel drying on his cheeks are a new development. He hasn't cried tears since he was a child. That first night, he had gone totally to pieces and sobbed so hard that his chest hurt for days afterward, but there were no tears. Poor Greg spent that night holding him together and probably saved his life. He'd made no secret of locating and confiscating John's gun. John had reminded him that he could write prescriptions and that a gun wasn't the only way to end the suffering. Greg had asked him if he was asking to be placed in protective custody, and he hadn't mentioned it again.

Mary is rubbing his upper arm. "You need a shirt. You're freezing." She gets up and digs through a dresser drawer. "Put this on, and let's make some tea." She tosses him a long sleeved t-shirt that he's never seen before and heads out to the kitchen.

He looks at the bedside clock, and pulls on the shirt. It's almost six in the morning. No point in trying to sleep, even if they could. He follows her out to the kitchen.

She's turned on the small light over the stove, but the rest is soothingly dark.

"Do you really want tea, or would you like something stronger?"

"It's almost breakfast time, but yes. Stronger would be good." he admits, and she hands him a glass of wine. He notices she hasn't even turned on the kettle, but she has already opened a new bottle of wine.

"French orange juice," she says as she pours one for herself and sits down at the kitchen table. She pushes the other chair out for him with her foot. "Join me?"

He brings the bottle with him and sits. "Sorry about that," he tips his head toward the bedroom.

She studies him calmly for a moment. "I have a confession to make."

He takes a sip of wine and studies her over the rim of the glass. "Are you trying to distract me?"

She smiles. "Maybe."

"Or, are you thinking I have something to confess, too, and you're planning to trade?"

"Hear me out, please."

He gestures with his glass. "The floor is yours."

She sets her glass down and folds her hands on the table. "I knew who you were when we met."

He frowns and puts his own glass down. "What are you saying?"

She reaches across the table and lays her hand over his. "There's nothing sinister about it, John. You and your friend were in the papers pretty frequently for a while before and after what happened. I recognized you right away."

"Why didn't you say anything?" He doesn't remember the slightest hint that she knew him. Maybe she's equally adept at faking love.

"I didn't want you to avoid me, John, and you would have if I'd said I knew who you were. Be honest."

He sighs. "All right, yes. I probably would have. But a lot of time has passed. Why didn't you say anything before this?" He pauses. "The nightmare."

"The nightmare," she agrees. "John, I've known what was behind your moods all along, and I wanted so badly to help, but I knew you would be upset."

"So you lied to me."

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. "No, I didn't lie. I left something out, that's not the same. I needed to wait until you brought it up."

He snorts a laugh that has no humor whatever. "I didn't have a nightmare for the sake of conversation."

"You may have, actually. You're familiar with subconscious desires influencing behavior. How do you know the nightmare didn't have exactly that purpose?"

"Because I know what triggered it." He tells her about Greg's gift. "I'm afraid it's dredged up some feelings I thought I'd gotten past."

She takes the bottle and refills their glasses. "We've all lost people we love, John. The pain never really goes away, but this is more than pain."

He smiles, but it's not an expression of pleasure. "I could give you chapter and verse from my therapist's notes. She thinks I've allowed myself to become stuck at the stage of grief where guilt and regret outweigh the pain of loss," he parrots. "No offense, Mary, but neither of you have the first idea what you're talking about. I miss him, and I'm as angry as it's possible to be for what he did, but I don't feel guilty anymore. I didn't push him off that ledge."

She studies him silently for a long moment. "But you didn't stop him, either."

He's actually speechless. The naked cruelty of what she just said to him makes him sit back in his chair, putting as much distance as he can between them.

"Please, John. Listen to me. I know more than you think about what you're feeling. My sister took her own life when I was 22 years old. She was living with me, and I knew she was depressed, but I left her alone to go out with my friends. If I had stayed, she would still be alive. It's not my fault that she tried to kill herself, but it is my fault that she succeeded."

He's staring past her, looking back at the moment he realized what was going to happen. "He wasn't depressed. There was no reason for what he did. I think that's what kills me. There was no fucking reason. I still can't believe it." He looks at her. "And that's the part I haven't told anyone because they'll think I really have lost my mind." He can feel his eyes tearing up. "Maybe I have."

"I saw him fall four stories. I heard him hit the pavement. I held his wrist as long as they let me, and there was no pulse. He was lying in a pool of blood. There is no rational basis for it, but I can't make myself believe he's dead." He shakes his head. "I don't mean I think he's alive. But there's always been this connection between us. It sounds crazy, but I still feel it. If he was dead, why wouldn't that go away?"

There are tears in her eyes. "You should be grateful for that connection. Someday you will be."

"I don't know if I can hold out until 'someday'. I've never lost anyone that I was so close to. I don't have anything to compare this to, but shouldn't things be getting better?"

"What does your therapist say?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "I'm only seeing her to keep Greg Lestrade from locking me up for my own good. If she knew that I saw him at the cemetery two days after his funeral, she would help Greg lock me up and throw away the key."

Mary is frowning at him now. "You saw who? Greg?"

He barks a short laugh that has a decidedly manic edge. "No. Sherlock. I was walking away from his grave and I swear to Christ I saw him from the corner of my eye. Just on the edge of my peripheral vision. When I looked directly at the spot, there was no one there."

"Have you seen him since then?" She asks the question with what he hears as exaggerated calm.

"No," he lies and watches her posture relax. He sees him all the time, in taxis passing on the street, in every tall man in a long coat. Mostly in the dreams that he'd thought had left him, until tonight.

She reaches over and takes both of his hands in hers. "John, my love, you are human. And so was Sherlock Holmes. You saw him because you were in an emotional place in an extremely emotional situation. If he had walked up and said hello, I would be worried about you. What you're describing is a wish fulfillment. Not insanity."

"Why can't I let him go?" He whispers it, but he already knows the answer. He doesn't want to let Sherlock go, and he never will.

"Have you ever asked him that question?"

He stares at her. "I asked him to come back."

She gets up from her chair and comes over to stand next to him. She takes his hand and tugs him to his feet. "You have to ask him to let *you* go, John."

Which is how they come to be standing at Sherlock's grave as the sun rises an hour later.

Mary lets him go first, then follows a moment later and slips her hand into his. "Tell him goodbye, John," she says softly.

He grips her hand tightly and takes a shaky breath. "I want to understand why you did this," he begins so softly that he doubts Mary can hear him. "I want to forgive you." His voice breaks. Mary squeezes his hand. "I want to, but I don't know if I can."

He shakes his head. "I need to be alone, Mary. I'm sorry."

She hugs him tight for a moment, then lets him go. "I'll wait for you."

He watches her leave, then turns back to the headstone. "I think you'd like her. She's smart and kind. I think you would want that for me." He can't get his voice above a whisper, but that's loud enough to speak to the dead. "I've tried to believe that you're gone, but I can't. I don't know why you couldn't tell me what you needed, and I'm sorry if it was something I did that made you shut me out at the end. Please forgive me for not being there." He has to stop and collect himself. His voice is stronger when he continues. "Mary thinks I need to tell you goodbye. I trust her." He smiles. "Not the way I trust you. No one will ever have that, but she's as close as I'm going to get. I just can't do what she wants me to now." He walks up to the headstone and takes hold of it with both hands, head bowed. He can't say the word. He won't say it. There's nothing good about it. "I know you don't believe there's anything beyond this life, and I've never wished more for you to be wrong about something. I will always miss you, but I can't wait for you anymore or I'll lose what's left of my mind. I will never forget you. Please don't forget me."

He turns on his heel and takes what's left of his heart back to Mary.

End of chapter 8


	9. Mycroft POV - Sherlock POV - Serbia

Something Broken 9

Summary: Mycroft will do anything for his brother except let him know that he's doing it.

* * *

"How long since you were sure of his location?" The head of the eastern Europe section himself has come to Mycroft's office halfway across London, which underscores the concern that's been generated by Mycroft's actions over the past 24 hours. The two men are officially peers, but each has accumulated contacts and power that, in their own arenas, gives them control that normally goes unchallenged even by the few who are above them in the overall organization. In the current situation, Mycroft's usurpation of resources and assets is coming perilously close to a thrown gauntlet that can no longer be ignored.

Mycroft selects a document from the folder in front of him and makes a show of reviewing its contents although he knows to the minute when he last knew where Sherlock was. "Thirty-two days."

"I see. And you have evidence that he's not simply taking time off after a long assignment? It's not unheard of for your brother to disregard protocol. Devoting so many resources toward locating someone who may not even want to be found is jeopardizing other missions in progress. I need to know that your concern is justified."

He'd anticipated this question, but he has no good answer. Instinct is not evidence, even if he were willing to admit that's what is driving him. "His last message indicated that the mission was complete and he would be making his way to the extraction point in Bar via rail from Belgrade. It is the least covert of the planned exit strategies. If he suspected potential problems, he had alternatives that would not have involved so much exposure. We should have heard from him within 24 hours, but there has been nothing further."

"I don't think I need to point out that this operation has been unorthodox from the start. The utilization of assets and resources outside proper channels could be condoned on balance with the value of the targets taken out, but the location and extraction of your brother has begun to eclipse operations outside of the region. There will need to be an agreed upon end point, if I am to allow this to continue."

The end point, obviously, will be when Sherlock is safe. Or, when it's been determined that he's dead. Mycroft will accept nothing else, but this is not the time for such a declaration. "If we have not confirmed his location by the end of the week, I will release your assets to their original assignments."

The section chief nods. "I know this is difficult, Mycroft, and your brother is undeniably a valuable asset beyond the fact that he's your family, but there are limits for any of us. We're fast approaching that point." He stands and extends his hand to Mycroft, sealing the agreement.

"I do fully appreciate the facts." Mycroft rises and shakes the section chief's hand, then stands silently until the door closes behind him.

Instinct is not evidence. Is it cause for taking action, particularly the extreme action he's considering? The section chief has officially distanced himself and his section from Mycroft and his brother, but he also knows that Mycroft is not going to stop.

He picks up his personal mobile and makes his first call.

* * *

It's so cold that he thinks outside might actually be better, but of course that hasn't been an option for 37 days. It feels a lot longer, but he's been meticulous about marking the wall every day.

Devising a method to determine when 24 hours have passed took some ingenuity. There's no window to the outside, but there is a small one in the locked door that offers a limited view of the corridor. When the new shift comes on every 8 hours, someone changes a form on the clipboard that hangs from a hook on the wall opposite the door. There are three colors of paper, and he keeps track of how many times the sheet is blue. That seems to be the favorite of whoever does the swap on the third shift. The blue paper has made its appearance 36 times. Tonight will be 37.

_*You could always count the number of food trays you refuse and divide by three.*_

"Not helpful, John. The food isn't offered every day. I would lose track."

_*How do you know it's not, and how do you know there are only three colors of paper, or that you've seen them all?*_

"I know."

He knows because an earlier version of himself came up with the method when he was both sane and healthy. The subtle slide into his current state was so insidious that it escaped his notice until three days ago when John abruptly joined him in his mind palace, full of unhelpful advice about the dangers of hypothermia.

_*The damage is cumulative, Sherlock. You need to get warm. Tell them you'll talk to someone and get out of this icebox for a few hours.*_

"Not an option."

_*Stubborn git.*_

"I'm really not."

He really isn't. It's not a question of his willingness or lack thereof. No one has actually asked him a question since the first night, and that was only a somewhat rigorous interrogation regarding his credentials which his interrogator seemed to find suspicious, going by the enthusiastic beating that followed his response. He's been alone in this cell ever since. Except for the food trays that appear and the changing paper on the clipboard, he might be alone in the universe. The guards have even stopped talking to each other when they're near his cell. John's voice in his head is the only human contact he's had in nearly two weeks.

Ironically, his original mission is accomplished. He dismantled the final network sector over a five month period that ended 41 days ago, by his own benchmark. He was working on an unrelated issue that he identified as a low risk side mission when he got himself arrested and jailed for reasons he's still sorting out. His last contact with Mycroft was 38 days ago, which should have raised considerable alarm by now, but there's been no indication that his brother knows his location. Unfortunately, he'd been so confident-

_*OVER confident*_

"Shut up, John."

-of the low risk nature of this side mission that he hadn't mentioned to Mycroft that he planned to spend a few days tidying it up before he made his way to the extraction point.

Since it appears that Mycroft won't be finding him any time soon, he's formulated a plan of escape. His captors took him outside for medical treatment the first week of his captivity, and he heard them complaining about there not being a facility on site. Since there appears to be no other way of getting out of this building, his plan is to need medical treatment and work from there.

_*Bloody brilliant. What do you plan to do to yourself?*_

"Ignoring you, John. Get out of my head."

He could inspire another beating with very little difficulty, but that could result in actual injuries that would make escape even less likely than it is now.

_*Have I mentioned that hypothermia impairs thought processes and judgment to an increasing degree over time? You're making no sense.*_

They don't know the meaning of suicide watch here in sunny Serbia, he's noticed. The food trays come with conventional tableware. They do take exception if he tries to keep the knife or fork, he discovered early on, but they pay no attention to what he does with either while he has the tray.

_*So, what? You plan to saw through your wrist with a dull table knife and hope someone notices before you bleed to death? What is it with you and suicide?*_

"If I wanted to die, all I would have to do is nothing."

_*And anything is preferable to nothing, no matter how crazy anything happens to be?*_

"Stop talking. I can't concentrate."

_*You can't think because you're dangerously hypothermic and dehydrated. Bad combination for planning a daring escape.*_

"Get out of my head."

He doesn't have to produce dangerous blood loss, just enough to alarm the guards. The alternative is slow death from hypothermia, malnutrition, dehydration, or all of the above. The risk is low.

_*Low risk like the side trip that put you in this cell.*_

Fair point. Also a fair point that the cold is slowing him down. He really expected Mycroft to have made an appearance by now, or to at least have sent word that he was planning something to help.

Focus on something useful. Mycroft isn't coming. Bleeding might not be the best course of action. Contact with the attendants is too limited to permit persuasion or intimidation. There's no lock to pick, just a bar on the outside of the metal door that drops into brackets on either side and is unreachable from the small wire-reinforced glass window at eye height. The slot at the bottom of the door for passing through food trays is too low to reach the bar, even if he had something to bend and push the bar up from the brackets. He would have no leverage. The walls, ceiling and floor are concrete with no openings.

Not useful. He must be missing something. Some asset he could use, or a weakness he could take advantage of. If he's not missing anything, then he's stuck here, and that's not acceptable.

Go over it again.

* * *

Mycroft has assets throughout eastern Europe looking for Sherlock, although only a bare handful of them know the name of their quarry. He knows where Sherlock's trail ended, but there's been no trace of him from that point forward. The woman he has on the phone at this moment will be his way into the Serbian version of military intelligence. She clearly doesn't approve of his plans.

"Sir, an insertion over such a short time span is almost guaranteed to raise suspicion. The group we're targeting isn't sophisticated, but they're not idiots."

"I'm aware of the risks. I believe I've explained the urgency."

"Yes, sir, I understand. But you have to know the risk you're asking others to undertake. You're exposing an entire section to discovery. A section that's taken ten years to establish. Speaking perfect Serbian and committing the entire echelon to memory will reduce the risk, but-"

He cuts her off, his patience exhausted by six consecutive calls to assets who have no choice but to accommodate him. He's listened to his last warning. "I fully understand what I'm asking. If there were any other way, I would not be going in personally. I can guarantee that under no circumstances will I divulge information that would endanger anyone but myself."

There is a long silence. "Yes, sir. I will transmit confirmation as soon as I have your itinerary and contact." Another pause. "I hope he's still alive for you to find him, sir." She ends the call before he can respond.

Not that he would have had a response. His mind is already consumed with analyzing the sparse information he's been able to gather over the past 8 hours.

The last contact with his brother had been a routine update. His mission was complete and he would be back in contact from the extraction point. Tracing him from that contact forward is proving to be problematic. Mycroft is using his gut instinct to a degree that worries him deeply, but there's no choice.

He has been given three potential targets, and no hard facts about any of the three that would identify him definitively. No physical descriptions beyond gender and approximate age. The length of time each has been in custody is within the timespan Sherlock has been missing. All are being held on suspicion of subversive activities, and each is being questioned in a separate location.

'Questioned' is a euphemism, he knows too well. The prisoners are being tortured at worst, sleep deprived and starved at best. One of the three has to be Sherlock, if he's still alive. Mycroft has to make his best guess at which one because there's not likely to be a second chance to look at one of the other two locations. He needs more information to make that best guess, and the time it's taking to get it is about to push him into making a decision based on emotion. That is something he can't allow.

His love for his brother has always been his only true vulnerability, but it's a massive one, and it's becoming more widely known than is safe for either of them. If Sherlock is made to reveal his true identity to the men who are holding him now, it could well be the end for both of them. Even the lowest echelon of military intelligence in Serbia would eventually connect Sherlock Holmes to his powerful brother. It would not take them long to turn him into a weapon against which Mycroft has no defense. Threatened with the prospect of getting his brother back piece by piece would be a motivator that he doesn't want to consider. He would immediately be removed from his position. Left unable to help his brother. Responsible for his slow, agonizing death.

He's done his best for years to protect Sherlock from being similarly exposed. He's taunted, berated, and goaded him into the hostile detente of their current relationship for the sole purpose of making certain that Mycroft could never be used as leverage against him. Unfortunately, he left his brother exposed on fronts that he himself has never experienced. He failed to identify the danger John Watson would pose, but no one could have predicted the bond Sherlock would form with the man. Sherlock has also allowed himself to become attached to DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and the lab technician at Bart's. Threats to any of these people would ultimately be a threat to Mycroft as well, simply because of the effect it would have on Sherlock.

It's not going to stop him, but this rescue may well end his career, regardless of the outcome. Mycroft has maintained a carefully dispassionate attitude toward his brother in any dealings with his colleagues. Until the current issue arose, he'd been confident that the degree to which he could be manipulated by threats to Sherlock was sufficiently masked. The fact of his personal involvement in the planned rescue will be impossible to hide, and his carefully crafted persona will be erased. His value to MI6 may finally be outweighed by the danger he could pose.

The trill of his personal mobile startles him, and he notes the faint tremor in his hand as he picks it up.

"Sir, I think we have him."

* * *

He's jerked from a dream into a nightmare, hauled to his feet, bright light shining in his eyes. Voices shouting in Serbian as his arms are pinned roughly behind his back, lifting his feet from the floor.

"Wait," he shouts in Serbian. "What are you doing?" His shoulders are on fire, supporting most of his weight as he's dragged down the corridor past cell doors. He doesn't remember leaving his own cell, but he's out of it now.

"Do not speak!" one of the voices shouts in his ear.

His eyes are blurry with tears of pain and stinging from the light they're shining in his face, but he can make out two men walking in front of him dressed in heavy winter clothing with rifles slung over their shoulders. When he drops his head to avoid the light, he's jerked up by a hand grabbing his hair. He closes his eyes and listens to the shouted conversation of his captors. They're taking him to interrogation. Something new has come up. They're ordered to find out who he is. No matter what it takes.

A metallic sound of a door opening. A big one. He risks opening his eyes into the glare and glimpses a large dark-walled room. The door slams behind them, and he's hauled to the middle of the room, arms jerked hard out from his sides like he's flying. A manacle is clamped to each wrist. Chains clank on both sides, and his wrists are yanked painfully up and back, lifting him upright and then higher until his bare feet are barely in touch with the floor enough to support his weight.

"What do you want?" he tries again in Serbian.

He gets a bucket of icy water in the face in response, and he's instantly shaking with cold.

"What is your name?" The man standing in front of him shouts the question as he removes his heavy coat and begins to roll up his sleeves.

"I told you." He repeats the cover identity that he gave them the first night. It had earned him a beating then, but they had eventually seemed to accept it. Apparently, something has changed.

The man with the newly rolled up sleeves steps toward him, hauling back his right fist. Sherlock has seconds to prepare before the blow lands on his left cheekbone. Before he can brace, something slams hard into his abdomen and takes his breath away.

"We will keep asking until you tell us the truth," his abuser snarls in his ear, breath warm and fetid. "We have as long as it takes."

Freezing where he stands, his legs are shaking now, barely able to support him. And this is just the beginning, he knows. A moment later, a second hard blow to his face snaps his head around. Lights flare behind his closed eyelids for an instant before everything winks out.

* * *

End of Chapter 9


	10. Serbia - part 2

Mycroft is seated in the back of a military staff car befitting his rank. He chose the rank of Major because it's impressive enough to intimidate, but not enough to draw unwanted attention. His driver is a lucky last-minute acquisition, an asset who knows something of the prison as well as the staff they will likely encounter. He also has experience as a medic that Mycroft hopes will not be needed. Ironically, the woman Mycroft was most irritated with out of the six operatives he employed to get here is the one who found this man for him, and he owes her an apology he can never offer.

Of the three possible targets, Mycroft has made the best choice he can with the available evidence, but it's still a guess. He received a call five hours ago referencing a report that had been intercepted and dismissed three weeks earlier from a medium security detainment facility in eastern Serbia near the Romanian border. It stated that one of their detainees, a Serbian national of no fixed address, had been accused of mind-reading trickery by one of his guards. The prisoner in question is one of the three previously selected as potentially being Sherlock. This latest piece of data focused the search and put Mycroft on a plane.

Unfortunately, they have lost the element of surprise. Word has gotten back to Mycroft's contact that the prison officials know of the new interest in the weeks-old report, and they are worried that they've missed one of their prisoners being a dangerous subversive. It means Sherlock is no longer an anonymous prisoner, and there are no longer any limits to what they will do to get the truth from him.

This is the situation he's always feared: Sherlock trapped somewhere out of reach, in mortal danger that Mycroft is powerless to stop. He is still hours away from finding out just how close to reality his nightmares have become.

* * * *

"You are to keep him awake." The team leader has just re-entered the interrogation cell and is clearly not pleased by the fact that his prisoner is hanging limply from his manacled wrists, knees flexed and all of his weight suspended on the chains.

"We have to let him rest. We cannot get answers from a corpse." This is from the man who has been handling the 'questioning'.

Sherlock has discovered that playing dead is the only way to stop the abuse, if only for a short time. They don't like any of the answers he gives, and not answering isn't any better. Unconsciousness - faked or real- provides the only respite, and he's unfortunately finding it less and less necessary to fake it.

"There has been an inquiry from Intelligence about this man. If we are not able to find out who he is, we will have to answer for it. Do you wish to find yourself on the receiving side of this interview?" The voice is the team leader's, and he is masking fear with a growl.

"What if he's telling the truth? His answers do not change."

"I will show you." The team leader walks behind Sherlock as he speaks.

Sherlock starts to raise his head to 'wake up', just in case the man has plans to force it, when something that feels like a flexible rod slams across his back at kidney level and takes his breath away. His head snaps back as his body arches around the pain, bending backward and bringing him to his feet from pure reflex.

The man who struck him comes around to the front, smiling at his success. He turns to the interrogator. "You see, he's neither dead nor unconscious. Do your job." He turns and leaves the cell, letting the door slam behind him with a deep metallic boom.

Sherlock looks directly into his abuser's eyes and sees doubt and exhaustion. It almost makes him smile. The inquiry from Intelligence can't be a coincidence. There's nothing about his cover identity that could have sparked it. It has to mean that Mycroft has found him.

_*All you have to do is stay alive until he gets here.*_

The man turns away for a moment, bends down and picks up the leather strap he's been using on his back. That's better than more blows to his front, by far, but it's also easier for the man to swing the strap than it is to throw punches. He'll be able to keep it up longer.

"What is your name?" he asks as he walks behind Sherlock.

Sherlock hears strap hiss on the backswing and closes his eyes in fierce concentration. He tries to force the tension out of his muscles, but his body refuses to obey. Reflex overrides willpower and his back knots under the blow, and the next, and the next.

**** 

The plan they've settled on is deceptively simple. Mycroft will commandeer the prisoner as a high value threat who must be taken to headquarters for intense interrogation. It's the type of glory-grabbing that happens routinely, even in British Intelligence. Let the foot soldiers do the work, and the upper echelons take the credit. The maneuver won't come as a surprise to the men who are holding him. Mycroft wanted to tell the prison staff to get the prisoner ready for them, hoping to stop whatever they're doing to him. His driver provided sound reasons against such a move.

"There's nothing you could do that would raise suspicion more quickly. You will be expected to observe the interrogation, not stop it. You don't want them to start wondering why you came in person rather than just having the prisoner sent to you."

The driver holds his gaze in the mirror until Mycroft nods before he continues. "We're going to get him, sir."

The next two hours are the longest Mycroft can remember. They've seen no other vehicles for twenty minutes, driving a winding two lane paved road through a deeply forested area. The darkness is total, which makes the glow of the prison lights when they appear through the trees seem much closer than they actually turn out to be.

"There will be a cursory examination of my credentials at the gate. They won't ask to see yours until we get inside, if then" the driver tells him as they approach the razor wire fence at the entrance.

There are two guard houses, one on either side of a double metal gate that swings from the center to accommodate motor vehicles. A guard comes out of the one on the left as they pull up and stop at the gate. He accepts the wallet that the driver offers, and walks quickly back to his booth. They can see him speaking animatedly into the phone for a moment before he returns.

"We have not been told that you were coming." The man's voice betrays his nervousness.

The driver snatches his wallet from the guard's hand. "My commanding officer does not need permission to inspect your facility. You would be wise to announce to your commander that he has an important guest and open this gate at once."

The guard doesn't move. The driver looks at Mycroft in the mirror, eyebrows raised. Mycroft opens his door and steps out. "You will open the gate and notify your superior that I am coming in. Now." His voice is pitched in his most commanding register, and his practiced glare is fixed squarely on the guard.

"Yes, sir. Yes." He immediately opens the gate and returns to the gatehouse. Mycroft gets back in the car and watches though the tinted window as the guard picks up the phone with a trembling hand.

The driver gives him an approving nod. "That's exactly the attitude they'll be expecting, and you will have to maintain it while the interrogation goes on in front of you, or we're not going to get out of here. They'll keep after him until he gives them something. Let's hope your brother knows what to do."

Mycroft's performance at the front gate has apparently been shared with the welcoming committee inside the prison. The captain of the shift is deferential and accommodating. He quickly verifies that the prisoner they have come for is being interrogated.

"Take me to him," Mycroft orders. As previously arranged, the driver will keep track of the staff while Mycroft retrieves his brother.

There is a young man at the end of the corridor dressed in a heavy winter coat and hat, a rifle over his shoulder and the white wires of an iPod dangling from his ears. He salutes the Major as he passes. Mycroft barely acknowledges him. His focus is on the sounds coming from the other side of the metal door.

**** 

_*You stopped shivering. This is not good.*_

He knows this without John's helpful warning. The shivering stopped about the same time that he stopped feeling the cold. Since he can see his own breath in the air, it's not because the temperature has gone up. The last bucket of water still felt cold, but he's been getting sleepy and almost warm since then. It is not sitting well with the man with his tormentor.

"You will tell me who you are and why you are here."

"I told you," Sherlock gasps. The conversation has become repetitive and predictable. The blow that lands on his back in response is not a surprise, and barely hurts. Nerve endings eventually become desensitized, he's discovered. Hit the same spot often enough, and it stops hurting. This does not seem to apply to his abdomen or ribs, unfortunately, and his abuser knows this, going by the flurry that lands next.

His full attention is on trying to pull in a breath without moving his shrieking abdominal muscles when the heavy door opens and the man snaps to attention.

"I will have your report now," a new voice commands.

_*Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Did you hear? It's Mycroft.*_

He's afraid to look up because he can't hide his relief. He's suddenly shaking with it. Or it might be that he's responding to the cold again. Either way, his physical reaction surprises him. Every nerve ending that had been numbed is now wide awake and screaming. His heart is hammering with a new rush of adrenaline, and it's hard to breathe, but for a different reason than a few moments ago.

The interrogator is speaking to Mycroft, reporting that the prisoner has not responded to questioning. He makes no excuses. He apologizes for his ineffectiveness and asks if the Major wishes him to continue.

_*He'll get you out of here now, just hang on another minute. You're safe now.*_

"Continue."

*WHAT?*

He barely notices the punch that snaps his head to the right. Mycroft is watching this and not stopping it. The man who's beating him senseless is now doing it to impress Mycroft.

_*You know there's a reason, Sherlock. There has to be. What is it? THINK.*_

He doesn't know. He has to get the man to stop hitting him so he can think, and he tries playing dead. It works for a few seconds, and then the bucket of icy water splashes over him, and the beating resumes.

_*Sherlock, talk to the man who's hitting you. Listen to his voice. You know who that is.*_

He does know the voice. He remembers making a special effort to note this voice. It was going to help him somehow. He must have had a plan, but he never carried it out. He doesn't know why.

Another crack on the jaw makes everything go gray and quiet.

_*No, you can't pass out now. You know who he is. You have to talk to him. He'll stop if you just play your cards right."_

Cards. The guards were playing cards by the clipboard with the blue paper. This voice was there. Sherlock listened for a week, every night on third shift. The guards played cards just across the corridor. This voice did most of the talking. His flat. Money trouble. Neighbor trouble. His wife.

_*Tell him what you told me, Sherlock. You remember. You had a plan. You know what will make him stop and leave you alone. Mycroft will help you if you make him stop.*_

Suddenly the hitting stops on its own, and Sherlock looks up because there's no longer any relief on his face to hide. What he sees tells him he's about to die while Mycroft sits there watching.

**** 

Mycroft knew it was Sherlock the instant he heard the sounds of pain through the door. Now that he sees what they've done to his brother, he understands what the driver was warning him against. He can't react to what he's seeing, and knowing that Sherlock must realize he's sitting here allowing this to continue is infinitely worse than he ever expected.

They planned for everything but this. There are distress words Sherlock could use in a communication to call for help. Codes words to identify a location for extraction. But they never expected to be in a situation like this. Mycroft needs a false confession, a statement, an excuse to congratulate the man who's slowly beating his brother to death in front of him. Something that will get them out of here alive.

And abruptly, there's no time left.

The man has picked up a heavy pipe from the floor, and it's clear that his frustration has erased his common sense. This is not a tool to extract information. It's a murder weapon. He swings it back.

Mycroft is frozen by the certainty that he can't possibly stop the blow before it lands. He is about to see his brother murdered before his eyes.

The man freezes in mid-swing, then leans close to Sherlock's bowed head, listening to whispered words that Mycroft can't make out.

"He says the power is out in my bathroom."

Mycroft breathes again. *There you are, brother mine. There you are.*

The man is still holding the pipe, but he's not swinging it now, he's leaning on it like a cane, still leaning down and listening.

"What is he saying?"

The man is shaking his head in disbelief. He repeats what Sherlock is telling him, something about his wife cheating on him with the coffin maker, but Mycroft is no longer listening. Already focused on the next step, he's trying to judge his brother's ability to walk out of this room. The man is being manipulated into going after his cheating wife, and Mycroft will have very little time to get them out when that happens.

"He says if I go now, I will catch them," the abuser growls, and leaves without another word.

Mycroft gets to his feet and crosses to where Sherlock is hanging limply from the manacles on his wrists. He pulls on the matted hair and looks into his brother's battered face. He sees defeat and exhaustion and flagging consciousness. He needs to see anger and adrenaline. The words he hisses into Sherlock's ear are carefully chosen based on his knowledge of exactly what buttons to push.

Sherlock responds with a tight smile that Mycroft knows well. It says there will be consequences for this, and Mycroft nods. *_Fight back, Sherlock. I need you to fight.* _

"We need to get out of here now." He unsnaps the manacles, and Sherlock drops to his knees, then to all fours, head down.

"No, Sherlock. Get up."

"Wait," Sherlock pants, his breathing ragged and strained.

Mycroft grabs his left shoulder and pulls him to his feet. "Sorry, we don't have time. You have to walk."

Sherlock cries out, then bites it back and staggers forward.

The driver is heading toward them when they reach the end of the corridor. He gets on the other side of Sherlock and helps support him in the guise of restraining their prisoner. He's barely keeping to his feet, and it takes both Mycroft and the driver to keep him moving.

"I will send my recommendations for your reward when I return to headquarters," he tells the man at the front door as they walk out into the freezing night. No one stops them.

Sherlock is in ragged cotton prison trousers, no shirt, and bare feet. He should be shaking with cold. The fact that he is not is concerning. They load him into the back seat, and the driver gets behind the wheel.

The car pauses at the gate, and the guard waves them through. Mycroft and the driver are both watching the rear view mirror until the lights of the prison begin to fade into the trees.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asks in a shaky whisper. He's huddled against the door as far from Mycroft as he can manage.

Mycroft takes in his brother's trembling, shockingly thin body. Even in the dim interior, the damage is painfully clear. "You had a lot to do with that yourself."

"Not what I meant," Sherlock whispers, trying for a furious glare that comes off more glazed than angry. He's slurring his words.

The driver catches Mycroft's gaze in the mirror. He's frowning. "We need to pull over so I can get a look at him," he tells Mycroft.

"I would prefer to put more distance between us and any potential pursuit."

The driver nods, but he keeps glancing in the mirror and turning in his seat to look at Sherlock. A few miles later, he starts looking for a place to pull over.

"I don't think anyone is coming after us. I need to get a look at him."

A moment later, he pulls the car onto the shoulder and turns off the lights. "My kit is in the boot." He gets out and goes to retrieve it.

Mycroft turns on the overhead so he can see Sherlock's face. He's utterly still, and Mycroft shakes him lightly, trying to get him to open his eyes.

The driver opens the door, and Sherlock jerks awake, eyes wide and every muscle suddenly tensed with adrenaline.

"Whoa, mate. Take it easy."

Mycroft takes him gently by the shoulder. "Sherlock, it's me. You're all right. Let him look at you."

"I'm just going to make sure you're okay." He reaches for Sherlock's face and flinches at the quick deflecting swipe. "Lean him back against you so I can get a look at him."

It's an excuse to do the one thing Mycroft has wanted desperately since he walked into the cell. He pulls his brother against him, arms wrapped around his shoulders in what anyone but the brothers would call a hug. There is a brief moment of resistance before Sherlock relaxes into him and closes his eyes.

End of Chapter 10


	11. Serbia to London with a stop in Greece

Summary: Serbia - part 3

The manacles are the only thing holding him up, as it turns out. The instant Mycroft releases his wrists from their grip, he drops to his hands and knees, vibrating with the effort not to fall the rest of the way to the floor. There is one blessed microsecond of relief at the change in position before pain shoots from his fingertips to the center of his back. His arms are trembling under the strain of just keeping him where he is, and Mycroft is trying to get him to stand.

"Wait," he manages to get out, but Mycroft is relentless, pulling him to his feet as the room turns dark and the floor tips under him.

The grip on his shoulders makes him want to scream. Mycroft is hissing in his ear, but the words aren't important. It's that condescending, infuriating tone that is making him ache to reach for his brother's throat, but just walking is making him less angry and more nauseated with every step. He redirects his focus to staying upright and conscious. The pain in his shoulders is helping, actually. A man joins them on his right, his added grip making both shoulders scream in unison.

If they're taking him back to his cell, he's fine with that. He's ready to sleep. He needs to lie down. It's all he wants in the world.

And suddenly they're outside, and he was wrong about it being better outside because now he's wishing for the relative coziness of his cell. The frigid air should be waking him up, but his eyes are closing without his permission, and his legs are folding under him.

"Stay on your feet. The car is right here," a voice he doesn't recognize commands, close enough to his right ear that the warm breath raises the hairs on his arm, and he recoils into Mycroft, nearly knocking them both down.

"It's all right," Mycroft's calm voice comes from his left as the car door opens in front of him and he's pushed inside.

It's no warmer inside the car. Mycroft gets in next to him, and the car starts moving. He falls back against the icy leather seat and it's almost soothing for a moment. Numbing. He's losing the desire to hang onto consciousness, but he has to talk to Mycroft first.

"What took you so long?"

And Mycroft, as always, turns it back on him. "You had a lot to do with that yourself."

"Not what I meant."

He leans gingerly against the door, as far from Mycroft as space allows, and closes his eyes. It's slowly sinking in that he may actually be on his way home.

_*He closes his eyes, and opens them at the top of the stairs at Baker Street. The door to the flat is closed, but he can hear voices on the other side. He can't make out what they're saying, so he walks closer and puts his hand on the doorknob. It won't turn, and he frowns because it's never locked. He takes a step back and looks at the kitchen door. It's also closed, but the knob turns easily, and he opens it just enough to listen. He can hear the voices more clearly now, but he can't understand a word of what's being said. The words are gibberish, but the quick back and forth exchange sounds like an argument. Not a fight, but heading that way. He leans his head against the door, desperate to make sense of it. Without any warning, the door is jerked out of his hand, and he loses his balance. He puts both hands out to break his fall, but he's still falling and when he finally lands hard it's on the damp, filthy concrete floor of his cell.*_

He's being handled and restrained again, and he pushes back with the last of his strength. Running on empty. The needle is dropping rapidly. He can actually see it behind closed eyes.

Mycroft's voice, telling him it's all right. Warmth at his back. The needle hits zero, and he lets go.

It's daylight when he opens his eyes again. The first thing that comes into focus is Mycroft's face, inches from his own, and he closes his eyes.

"No, Sherlock. Stay awake."

Hands on his face. He pulls away, and his wrists are grabbed. "STOP!"

"Sherlock, you need to drink this."

Something presses against his lips, and his stomach rolls at the thought of swallowing.

"If you can't get him to drink, I'm going to have to start an IV."

"Sherlock, drink the water." Mycroft's voice.

He gathers himself and pushes blindly at the hands. A wave of dizziness, heart hammering, arms shaking.

A low rumbling fills the air around him, vibrating whatever he's lying on. He's moving. Weightless.

_*He's back in his cell, but it's not cold. He looks for the tick marks on the wall under his bed, down on all fours squinting in the dim light. It was 37 the last time he looked, but now the marks cover the wall, and he can't even count how many because they reach out past the bed and up the wall, increasing as he watches. The marks are appearing and multiplying and covering the walls and starting on the ceiling. Time is passing and he's growing older in seconds. He can feel it. When there's no more room for the marks, he will be dead, and he stretches out on the floor to wait.*_

"Sherlock. Open your eyes."

The sounds of a heart monitor. Distant voices, and one up close. Mycroft.

"Sherlock, look at me."

He shakes his head, regrets it instantly, and sinks back into the darkness.

"Sherlock, open your eyes."

There is a clear difference between coming up from unconsciousness, and waking from sleep, one with which he is regrettably familiar. This is waking up.

"Mycroft," he says, and opens his eyes.

His brother is wearing his practiced thin smile. "Good of you to rejoin us."

He needs to get the weight off of his battered back, but trying to roll over or sit up reminds him that his abdomen and ribs aren't much better.

"Let me help," Mycroft offers, and the head of the bed begins to rise with a soft motorized whirr.

He shifts a bit, readjusts to the position. "How long?"

"Thirty-six hours. The doctors plan to discharge you by the end of the week. I have to get back to London this afternoon, so you'll be coming back with an escort." He gets to his feet.

"Where are we?"

"Thessaloniki. We didn't think your treatment could wait. This was the nearest."

"We?"

Mycroft resumes his seat with a faintly weary sigh. "I brought a medical professional along with me to the prison, in case you required treatment."

Irrational hope blooms in his chest. "John?"

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "No, of course not. A trained operative with medical experience. His assistance was required, as it happened."

"Yes, well it might not have been quite so necessary if you hadn't let them half kill me for your amusement."

Mycroft looks at him for a long moment, his expression neutral. "In fact, he will be your escort back to England. I'll have him stop by this afternoon so you two can get acquainted." He stands again. "I will see you in a few days."

He turns and leaves the room without a backward glance.

His doctor comes by a short time later and informs him that he must eat and drink to avoid a nasogastric feeding. A tray is brought to him, and he manages to get half of a dish of green gelatin down. The bottle of water is easier.

"They're going to tube feed you, if you can't do better than that."

He looks up at the vaguely familiar voice and finds a man standing in the doorway. Military bearing and haircut. Thirty to thirty-five, medium build. Just under six feet tall. Single. Sherlock squints. Faded tan, maybe two weeks old. Confident. Australian accent. He's smiling.

"Mind if I come in?" His arms are crossed over his chest. His head tipped to the side inquiringly.

"Be my guest."

He comes to the bed and holds out his right hand. Sherlock shakes it. Firm grip, rough skin. "Jared Bahnsen." He steps back and crosses his arms again. "You look better."

"I'm fine. I understand you had something to do with that."

"Pretty much just drove the car, and started an IV to keep your heart going until we got you here. You were so dehydrated that we had a hard time keeping your blood pressure up. It was a long ride." He studies Sherlock for a long moment. "Your brother told me you're going to resist the notion that this might have any lasting effects. I can tell you from personal experience that no one is immune to effects of torture."

"It wasn't torture, and it's not the first time I've been knocked around."

Bahnsen shrugs. "Maybe not the first time. Maybe not the last. But certainly the worst so far, unless you've had plastic surgery to erase the earlier scars. You'll have some from this, incidentally, and they won't all be physical."

"PTSD is not the inevitable consequence of every traumatic experience. I might flinch the next time somebody shouts at me in Serbian, but I think that might be a universal reaction." He chuckles, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

"Do you know how long you were in the interrogation cell?"

_*Hash marks covering walls and ceiling, more than 37, but not real.*_

"Less than a day?" It felt longer, of course, but he doesn't think so.

"I asked. They started the interrogation about supper time on Saturday. Your brother and I arrived before dawn on Monday."

Sherlock shrugs before he remembers what it does to his back and shoulders, just managing to avoid a wince. "I'm actually relieved to hear that. I'd hate to think I got this screwed up in an afternoon."

"That's a long time to stick to a story. You had most of them convinced you were who you claimed. There was just the one guard captain who kept sending in someone new every 8 hours to keep you awake."

"Is that what they're calling it?"

Bahnsen laughs shortly. "Yeah. Interesting euphemism, isn't it?" His expression goes neutral. "Who's John?"

He's not entirely surprised by the question. Mycroft no doubt gave him a list of buttons to push to keep him engaged. Typical. "Why?"

"The guards said they heard you talking to someone you called John for the past few days, including while you were being interrogated. Just wondered if he was real or another trick of your mind palace."

There's no doubt now where he got his information. "Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

"I never mentioned it to him. I heard you in the car on the way here, and you've said it often enough since you've been here that it was noted in your chart."

Sherlock reviews his deductions about this man and decides he's missed something. "What exactly is your medical specialty?"

"I'm a combat medic, not a doctor, if that's what you're asking. I was just along to stabilize you."

"Not a psychiatrist, then."

"I'm familiar with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but from personal experience, not clinical training. I think that's more applicable anyway, don't you?"

"Did Mycroft know that?"

"No, but he didn't expect to find you being tortured, either. I guess it was just luck that I happened to be available."

Sherlock doesn't believe in luck any more than he believes in coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy, to quote Mycroft. "I don't have PTSD. If you don't mind, please ask someone to send in another tray on your way out. I'm *hungry*.' _*Nothing to see here. Perfectly normal appetite. Move along.*_

Bahnsen studies him for a moment, then heads for the door. "I'll stop by later to see how you're doing."

The food tray appears a few minutes later, and Sherlock picks at it for the next hour. He manages to eat everything, and even finds a reasonably comfortable position that lets him sleep.

Jared Bahnsen is standing at the foot of his bed when he wakes up. There's a fresh food tray somewhere nearby, too, going by the smell of overcooked cafeteria food that's wafting under his nose.

"You slept almost nine hours. I gather that's something of a record."

His mouth feels like it's filled with sand. He reaches for the water pitcher on the bedside table, and winces when the movement pulls across his shoulders.

"Let me get it for you." Bahnsen fills a glass, plunks in a straw, and holds it until he's sure Sherlock has a grip on it. He stands back and crosses his arms which seems to be his default position.

The water has an odd taste, but it's cold. The straw is an impediment, and he takes it out, drains the glass, and sighs contentedly. "I don't think I've ever been this thirsty."

Bahnsen grins and fills the glass again. "I would hope not. You can die of dehydration, you know. Add malnutrition and 36 hours of hanging by your wrists having the crap beat out of you, and it's going to take a bit of time to recover. Try to keep that in mind."

Sherlock drinks the second glass less greedily, but still drains it. "You're quite the ray of sunshine."

"Just a realist, mate. I've been where you are. We'll be spending another three days in each other's company, and probably won't see each other again for the rest of our lives, so I'm a safe outlet. You can feel free to talk about this. Any part of it. Even stuff you might not want to remember."

He can't resist rolling his eyes. "You think I'm suppressing something? I wish I could do that, but it's all quite vivid. I can give you a minute-by-minute account of all 37 days, if you want."

That draws a frown from Bahnsen. "You do know you were only in the prison for three weeks, don't you?"

"No, that's not right. I kept track. If you look at the wall in my cell, you'll find the hash marks." He's suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.

"Sorry, mate. I looked at the record while I was waiting for your brother to bring you out. It was 21 days, not 37. You had been out of contact for 37 days when we found you, but the first sixteen of those days were not spent in the prison."

Sixteen days. That can't be right. He remembers every moment. His anxiety must show because Bahnsen comes around to stand next to him.

"Hey, don't worry about it. It's okay. The past three weeks blocked it out, that's all. It will come back." His voice is calm and reassuring.

Deep breath. "It's just a little unsettling to lose that much time. You're absolutely sure the record is right?"

"No reason to suspect otherwise. It was pretty standard information." He smiles. "Hey, I'm supposed to be keeping you calm, not sending you into a panic attack. Don't rat me out to your brother, okay?" His tone is intentionally light.

It's all stored. He just needs to retrieve it. He smiles. "I was just caught off guard. I'm fine."

Bahnsen's expression and voice turn kindly but serious. "It may not be the last time you'll be caught off guard by this whole thing. If you don't get anything else from our brief association, please trust me on that. And if you need to talk sometime in the future, I'll leave my mobile number with you. No matter where I am in the world, I'll call you."

The flight back to the airstrip he left from two years ago takes six hours. With the exception of his new collection of bruises and lash marks, he's feeling almost normal, if a bit waterlogged. His body still craves liquids, even though his kidneys and bladder are complaining at the extra workload.

His bodyguard/counselor sleeps for the first two hours, upright in the aisle seat next to Sherlock, arms crossed of course. For the rest of the trip, Sherlock sleeps with his head resting on the bulkhead until the wheels touch down and bounce him awake.

Bahnsen helps him to his feet after the jet rolls to a stop. "You'll be stiff for a few more days. Move around as much as you can. Sitting still makes it worse."

Sherlock smiles. "Sitting happens to be my least favorite thing, so I should be good." He offers his right hand, and Bahnsen's firm grip reminds him of John.

"Take care, mate. And don't lose my number."

Sherlock descends the short flight of steps to the tarmac, then turns back to Bahnsen. "Thank you."

Bahnsen touches his forehead in a salute. "You're welcome. Don't undo my handiwork." He steps back inside the plane, the stairs are pulled up, and the door closes.

Mycroft has sent a car, and Sherlock walks toward it, back to his life.

End of Chapter 11

7


	12. Sherlock and Mycroft - post reunion

"Gosh, you don't know anything about human nature, do you?" Mary gives him a bemused look tinged with a hint of pity. John is a short distance down the street where he stalked off to hail a cab.

Sherlock pushes gingerly on the bridge of his nose with one hand and dabs blood with a paper napkin in the other. "Nature? No. Human?" *_Apparently, not.*_ "No."

"I'll talk him round."

"You will?" He lowers the napkin, frankly surprised that she would want to help him, and a tiny bit irked by how sure she is of her influence.

She smiles. "Oh, yeah."

He really looks at her for the first time, and picks up such a rush of detail that he has to put it on pause for a moment to regroup for round two. A moment later, John calls to her, holding the door of their waiting cab, and she goes to join him.

They drive past, Mary smiling out at him from John's side. He watches the cab blend into traffic, then turns and walks in the opposite direction.

Less than a minute later, a car pulls up and stops a few yards ahead of him. The door opens, and Mycroft steps out.

"Couldn't wait to say 'I told you so'?" The sarcasm would be more effective if his nose weren't stuffed with clotted blood.

Mycroft frowns. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm merely saving myself a trip. Get in." He gets back into the car.

Sherlock considers his options for a moment, then climbs in after him. "Please don't pretend that you just happened to be driving past on your way home. You were waiting for me."

"As I said I'm saving myself a trip. You're staying with me until your return is official. I knew the happy reunion would make for a short evening, so yes, I've been waiting for about twenty minutes." He studies Sherlock briefly. "Do you require medical attention?"

He stuffs the napkin into his pocket. "It's not broken. I just need to clean up." It does hurt, but he's more concerned with the non-physical bumps and bruises. He hadn't been quite as confident of the outcome as he'd tried to make his brother believe. Mycroft seems to have predicted John's reaction with annoying accuracy, which just sharpens the sting.

"I imagine you know by now that he's planning to propose to her," Mycroft ventures into the chilly silence. "He may have done tonight, in fact." He lifts a questioning eyebrow.

"He asked. I don't believe she had the opportunity to respond." Whether that was his subconscious intention or not, he's not ready to explore.

"I see."

Something in Mycroft's tone makes him turn in his seat, eyes narrowed. "You see what?"

Mycroft shrugs it off. "Your unexpected arrival interrupted them."

The tone is still there, and Sherlock crosses his arms. "If you knew he had this in mind, you might have warned me. He probably thinks I deliberately interrupted them."

"You don't actually believe that his response," Mycroft gestures at Sherlock's nose, "was about you barging in on his proposal? And to clarify, I _*did* _say that you might not be welcome. It would appear that I was right."

"I knew you couldn't resist." Sherlock turns to the window. It may be true that he can't accuse Mycroft of lying to him, or of failing to warn him, but he's guilty of both.

The 'happy reunion' was a bad decision that just kept getting worse. He had known it almost from the moment he walked into the restaurant. He blames Mycroft for knowing the buttons to push that had made it impossible for him to back down. As soon as he'd seen John alone at a table clearly set for two, the warning bells started jangling, but it just made him escalate from ill-conceived to risky to outrageous. There was a very good reason for his decision not to let John know he was coming before he popped up from the dead. He'd been afraid to give him the opportunity to say 'piss off'. All he'd had was the element of surprise, and his nervousness had inspired the rest. Mary might be able to 'talk him round', but she can't erase the look John had given him in those first few seconds, or the one that followed it when the shock started to wear off. As a last resort, he'd tried to make a joke of it, and there'd been no going back. Maybe there never had been.

"It's not like you to give up so quickly."

Sherlock glances at his brother and turns back to the window. He has wondered for most of his life if Mycroft can read his mind.

"Come now, Sherlock. It hardly takes a mind reader. Your body language is quite eloquent."

"Let it go, Mycroft. This one time, just let it go." He leans back against the leather seat and closes his eyes.

Whether complying with Sherlock's request, or just because he's said all he has to say, Mycroft is silent for the rest of the trip. When the car pulls up to the front entrance, he briefly considers going to a hotel instead, but that would require asking for Mycroft's help. He is, after all, still officially dead. He has no money and no credentials. Reason and weariness win out, and he follows his brother into the house.

Hours later, he is still prowling from room to room downstairs. Mycroft has a resident housekeeper who has retired for the night. His security staff are at their posts and have stopped asking if he needs anything when he passes through. It's nearly four in the morning, and his fingers are drumming on every surface within reach of his brief stops when what they crave is the violin he left at Baker Street two years ago.

When his route takes him through Mycroft's study for the umpteenth time, he's surprised to find a fire has been lighted in the fireplace. It wasn't there when he passed through ten minutes ago.

"I should have thought to have your violin here," Mycroft's voice drifts up from his leather wing-back chair next to the fireplace. Sherlock walks around the chair to face him.

"How do you do that? I've always wondered." He sits down in the opposite chair.

Mycroft shrugs, and Sherlock sees a drink in his hand. "Simple observation. You're restless, upset, and your fingers are in constant motion. Mummy actually started you taking violin lessons to redirect that frenetic energy more productively. It worked surprisingly well."

"Hmm. And I thought she'd spotted some innate talent." Yet another belief dashed.

"You are quite talented, as it turned out. A pleasant and unexpected bonus."

There is a crystal decanter of amber liquid on the table next to Mycroft's chair. Sherlock points to it. "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

Mycroft pauses in mid sip and looks at him over the rim of his glass. "You always refuse. Of course, you're welcome to join me." He puts down his own glass, fills a fresh one for Sherlock and hands it to him. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"An acceptable alternative." He takes a sip and suppresses a grimace. It's probably an exquisite private label Scotch, knowing Mycroft, but tastes the same to him as any other whisky. Alcohol in any form is not his drug of choice. His preferred 'poison' may have been illegal, but he always knew exactly what to expect from a given dosage. He hates the unpredictability of alcohol. The body's response depends on how the molecules are metabolized, and there are too many variables that can affect the result. He needs to slow his racing thoughts. As a central nervous system depressant, the whisky will work. It's just a question of dosage. An excess lowers inhibitions, and that can't be allowed. Sip, gauge the effect, repeat.

Mycroft's phone starts vibrating on the table next to his chair. He sets his glass down and picks up the phone. Apparently flicking through a text, he speaks to Sherlock without looking up. "I wonder if you're ready to entertain the possibility that I've been right all along."

Sherlock takes a deep swallow then leans back and lowers the glass to the arm of the chair. He gives Mycroft a long look. "Right about what?"

"The inevitable outcome of your experiment in making friends," Mycroft replies, making the last word sound as if it tastes as bad as the whisky.

"It wasn't an experiment, and it's not over." He brings the glass to his lips and drains it. It's impossible not to wince. He swallows a cough and holds the empty glass out to Mycroft for a refill.

There's a brief stare down before Mycroft takes the glass, fills it and hands it back.

He discovers that the taste has mysteriously improved, and a tiny warning bell tings faintly. "If you had let me include him in the plan, none of this would be happening." He gestures with the hand holding his drink, and the liquid sloshes to the rim before he brings it level.

Mycroft's expression is unreadable. "I'm forced to agree. None of this would be happening because it's likely that both of you would be dead."

"I guess we'll never know." He swallows half of his drink and feels the warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips. He ignores Mycroft's disapproving squint.

"Sherlock, I have been trying to protect you from this very situation your entire life. Caring is not an advantage, remember? You made friends, and Moriarty very effectively used all of them against you. There will always be someone willing to use your vulnerabilities against you. The people you let matter to you will always make you vulnerable, and they will always be in danger."

"Yes, I know. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Do you think the rest of the world doesn't know that?" He sits forward, reaching to put his glass on the table, then pauses to drain it first so he can set it down hard. The whisky burns all the way down. "You think you're above all the mindless sentiment, but that's not it at all. You're not avoiding vulnerabilities. You're protecting yourself, and you've tried all my life to make me just as afraid as you are because misery loves company." He pushes to his feet, towering over his brother. "We may be smarter than anyone we meet, but we're not better. Not even close."

He starts to walk away, planning to head out the front door and walk until he's too tired to think.

"Sherlock, sit down." It's an undisguised order, and Mycroft underscores it by standing up to block his brother's path.

They're toe to toe, and Mycroft has the height advantage, if only by an inch.

"Please." Mycroft's voice is calm this time. He steps back and returns to his chair, leaving Sherlock to decide whether to join him.

Mycroft's shift from command to entreaty breaks the tension. The adrenaline ebbs, and Sherlock returns to his chair, but remains perched stiffly at the edge of the seat.

"What do you want, Mycroft? Do you have a few more self-serving warnings for me? It's not going to work."

Mycroft studies him for a long moment. "I've never lied to you, Sherlock, not even to spare your feelings. You know what I told you about John was true, whether you admit it to me or not. I may have failed to convince you that forming attachments to people is dangerous, but you can't accuse me of doing it for my own benefit."

"I just did." His voice is dangerously soft.

Their gazes meet and hold for a beat. "You remember when we found Redbeard. Do you remember what I said to you?"

Sherlock sits back in the chair, blindsided as always by this tactic Mycroft seems to reserve for special occasions.

Mycroft nods. "I see that you do. I told you he was not a young dog, and that if Mummy allowed you to keep him, it wouldn't be for long."

Sherlock had been digging for buried treasure in the woods near their summer cottage when the red Irish setter had come trotting through the trees towards him. He'd never been around dogs, let alone owned a pet, and the large animal had frightened him. When he'd stood up to run, the dog rose on his back legs and put his front paws on Sherlock's shoulders. He had yelled for Mycroft who was working on some project in the garage at the other side of the house, and Mycroft came running. But by the time he had arrived to see what had his brother screaming for help, he'd found him rolling on the grass with a big red dog, giggling with delight. Sherlock had named him Redbeard because he'd found him digging for treasure, and it sounded like a pirate name.

"What is your point?"

"I wanted you to understand that Redbeard would probably only live a few years, and that you shouldn't get attached to him. Of course, you didn't listen. He got sick just a year later, and had to be put down. Mummy made up a story to tell you because she thought you were too young to understand. She was furious when she found out what I did."

He remembered it too well. His mother had made him cry with her version of why Redbeard had disappeared while Sherlock was at school, but she had dried his tears and convinced him that Redbeard had to go home to the little boy who owned him first. Then Mycroft had broken his heart with the truth.

"I was eight years old, Mycroft. Mummy was right." He'd had nightmares for months afterward, imagining Redbeard trying to dig his way out of the cold, dark earth.

"Redbeard's death broke your heart, but I made sure that you knew he didn't desert you. Mummy's story kept him alive, but mine preserved your faith in him. How would you have preferred to remember him?"

This is not a topic he handles well in the best of circumstances. "It was a long time ago," is the most neutral thing he can think of to say.

"I'm not trying to upset you, Sherlock. I'm trying to make a point. You distrust my motives. Redbeard is the first, best proof that I will tell you the truth, no matter what it costs. And whether you accept it or not, we *are* different from everyone else. The work we do is important. It saves lives. When you indulge your emotions, you put that work at risk. You can't have it all, Sherlock. No one can."

Sherlock meets his brother's steady gaze. "There doesn't seem to be much left to have." He gets to his feet and pauses a moment to test his balance. "I'm going to make the rounds tomorrow and see what I can salvage." He walks to the door, and Mycroft's voice stops him at the threshold.

"John Watson is incapable of hating you, Sherlock. Whether he's able to forgive you or not is another matter, but it's too soon to give up on him."

Sherlock turns to face him. "I thought that's what you wanted."

Mycroft studies him for a long moment. "I'll be going in to the office early. I'll send the car back for you to use as long as you need it." He turns his gaze to the fire. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock recognizes that tone. Mycroft has just shut down, and there's no point trying to reengage him. Topic closed.

Mycroft analyzes his brother's posture as he walks out of the room. Head tilted to the right and lowered. Slightly rounded shoulders. He listens to Sherlock head up the polished stairs, and notes the deliberate pace. Sherlock taking fewer than two steps at a time is always a red flag, but Mycroft doesn't need confirmation of what he already knows.

The cruel irony is that he once thought of John Watson as his brother's salvation, when what he's become is an addiction far more dangerous than the drugs he replaced. After a lifetime of isolation and ridicule, his brother found an appreciative audience of one. An ally in all things. A fiercely

loyal friend. It was an intoxicating combination. Instead of anesthetizing himself to the edge of oblivion, Sherlock could square off against the rest of the world with a John at his side, a man even Mycroft admits is worthy of the total trust his brother has in him.

If Sherlock believes he's lost John, he is all but certain to relapse into his original addiction. Mycroft has no experience with friends himself, and he can only imagine that Sherlock would respond to losing John in much the same way that Mycroft would to losing Sherlock. The likely outcome is unthinkable.

He finishes his drink and puts the empty glass on the table next to Sherlock's. He cannot allow this situation to deteriorate any further. Sherlock may be vulnerable with John, but the alternative could be immeasurably worse.

He crouches next to the fire and covers the embers with ashes, then takes his time knocking the residue from the brass tool before fitting it neatly into the stand. With the fire smothered, the room is in near total darkness, and he has to pick his way carefully to the door.

At the top of the stairs, he pauses next to the closed door of Sherlock's bedroom and listens for a moment before he heads down the hall to his own room.

End of chapter 12


	13. John POV Mary - post reunion

12/4/2014 2:30:42 a12/p12 - /tmp/uploads/FF_6036092_

Summary: John POV - Mary - post reunion

Blinding, murderous rage and stupefying joy should be mutually exclusive emotional states. The human body isn't meant to deal with both simultaneously, and his blood pressure is probably one indicator of why. He can feel it pounding behind his eyes. His hands are still shaking with adrenaline. He can taste it at the back of his throat.

Bastard. Bloody, lying bastard.

Alive. All this time. Fucking alive and breathing the whole time.

_Fucking _bastard.

"John?" Mary's hand covers his clenched fist where it rests on his jiggling right knee. He can't seem to stop moving.

He makes a herculean effort to relax, and manages to unclench the fist she's holding. He arranges his face into the best imitation of a smile he can manage. "I'm okay." He's nothing close to okay, and they both know it.

She catches his eye and glances toward the cabbie. John follows her gaze and meets the cabbie's eyes in the mirror. The man instantly looks away, but the glimpse John got tells him that his roiling emotions are still painfully apparent.

And then the emotional rollercoaster starts up a different hill, and the simple, incomprehensible truth washes through him.

Alive. Impossibly, miraculously alive. The fulfillment of a hopeless wish made over an empty grave, too cruel and too wonderful to grasp.

"John, we're home."

He looks up and sees her paying the fare. He opens the door and steps out onto shaky ground. Mary takes him by the arm and steers them to the front door and up the steps. Inside, she takes his coat and hangs it up. "Do you want some tea?"

He shakes his head and walks out to the kitchen. There's a full bottle of scotch in the cabinet over the fridge. He has to push boxes and cans out of the way to reach it. He grabs the first drinking glass his hand lands on, too tall for whisky but serviceable, and takes his bottle out to the sofa.

Mary glances his way, and he sees the look she gives the glass, but she bites her lip and doesn't comment. He sinks down on the sofa and fills the glass within an inch of the rim. By the time he's ready for a refill, the shakes have dissipated, and his breathing is almost normal.

He can hear Mary in the kitchen, making busy noises to let him know she's there if he needs her, but giving him space to settle into this new reality.

He's not as surprised as he should be. Standing at the grave, pleading with a man he had watched die in front of him to stop being dead hadn't felt as crazy as it should have, and that should have been his first clue. But the image of those blank eyes, the blood, the lifeless wrist under his desperate grip- it was all real. Two impossible, contradictory truths.

Molly Hooper knew all along. It explains a lot, but it poses an even bigger question than it answers. He admits that he's not a good liar, but Molly Hooper is much worse. He's seen her try, and the fact that she's hiding something is always plainly written on her face. At least, that's what he'd always thought. She's been avoiding his eyes for two years, and now he knows why. But Sherlock knew at least as well as he did how poorly Molly hides what she's feeling. If he and Mycroft were afraid that he would give something away, what made them trust Molly, of all people, instead?

"All lies. Even the lies are lies." He takes a deep pull from his drink.

"Mind if I join you?"

Mary is standing in front of him holding out a more reasonably sized glass than the one he's using. He fills it barely halfway, knowing that she's only drinking to keep him company. She watches him with soft, loving eyes that make his battered heart swell. He smiles, and it feels less forced this time. "I want to kill him."

"No, you don't. No one would blame you if you did, but that isn't what you want." She tucks one leg under her and puts her back against the arm of the sofa so she can face him. "I can't imagine what you're feeling."

He takes a deep swallow. "I always thought it was an act. Nobody could be as immune to human feelings as he always pretended to be. But it wasn't an act. I've been grieving for a computer." He makes a sound that was intended as a laugh but misses the mark by a wide margin.

"He's not a machine, John. You didn't really look at him tonight. He's hurting as much as you are."

He snorts at that. "It's an act, all of it. One he's very good at. You don't know him."

She doesn't respond, and he looks up to see why. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners by a small smile.

"I know him because you told me who he is. You've been talking about him every day since we met, John, long before you ever mentioned his name; when you still thought he was a secret. He's part of who you are, and that makes him part of me, too. I won't let you push him out of your life. I want to see you with all of your pieces back where they belong."

He has to swallow hard to get some whisky past the lump in his throat. Too much alcohol and too much emotion for his own good. Mary is poking a very tender spot. "People tried to warn me from the start. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. I should have believed them, and you need to believe me. He's got no heart, Mary, no matter how hard we try to see one." His voice cracks a bit, and he takes a drink to wash it away.

"You never believed that he was a fake," she says quietly after a long silence.

This is the one thing he's sure of, and he answers automatically. "No. I didn't. I still don't."

"Why?"

He looks at her. She's wearing an expression he's come to know well. "You're not going to steer me into some revelation, Mary. I've been maneuvered by a master. I know how it works."

"You didn't answer my question."

He puts down his glass. "What he does is real. I've seen the steps he takes to get to the conclusions he comes up with, and they're perfectly logical. It just takes a genius to see them, and an even greater genius to see the answers they point to. The talent is real. It's the only thing about him that is."

She nods. "Do you think he knows that you believe he's real?"

The night before he died. Watching out the window for Lestrade to come and arrest him. Sherlock at the laptop, looking up at him, lit from below by the glowing screen. Looking ghostly the way he soon would in John's dreams.

_You're afraid they're right. You're afraid you've been taken in as well._

_No, I know you're for real. No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time._

"He knows."

She chews her lip for a moment, hesitant but determined. "And yet he seemed to be trying to convince you that he was a fake before he jumped."

He closes his eyes tightly, squinting against the sudden rush of images and the flood of pain that comes with them.

"John, I'm sorry, but this is important." She touches his shoulder, and he turns to look at her.

"Yes, he tried to make me believe he was a fraud. I don't know why."

"Wouldn't that be one way to tell you that what you were about to see wasn't true, either?"

Another flash of memory. _It's a trick. Just a magic trick._ 'Is' not 'was'.

He shakes his head. "It wouldn't matter. Even if he meant it as a hint, he knew I didn't get it. He let me believe he was dead because he didn't trust me with the truth." His voice wavers, and he tightens it up to finish the thought. "Nothing he says now can change that." He drains his glass and reaches for the bottle.

Mary lays her hand on his arm, studies his face for a moment, then lets him go. He fills the glass only halfway.

"I don't have any answers for you," she begins quietly. "All I can do is try to help you see both sides."

He turns to look at her. "Why does it matter to you?"

"It matters to me because he matters so much to you."

He takes a drink. "Not anymore." The huskiness in his voice isn't just the whisky.

She scoots over next to him and hooks her arm with his, resting her head on his shoulder. "You know that's not true. I told you, I won't let you push him out of your life. You don't have to do it tomorrow, but you have to see him. You have to let him tell you why he did it." She tugs his arm and pulls back so he look at her directly. "You have to let him apologize, and-"

He interrupts her with an honest bark of laughter. "He'll never do that."

"-and you have to forgive him," she continues as if he'd never interrupted. "There was a time when you trusted him with your life. You don't trust people easily." She smiles. "Believe me, I know from personal experience. I trust your judgment, and you trusted him. That tells me he was at least worthy of it at the time. You can't let him go without giving him a chance. I wouldn't, and I won't let you."

The combination of alcohol and emotional turmoil is catching up with him. All he wants in the world is to sleep for as long as it takes to stop feeling this way. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I promise you, I'll think about it."

She hugs him, then sits upright. "You go to bed. I'll tidy up and join you."

He feels like he's run a marathon. "I think I'll have a shower."

She takes hold of his hands and tugs him to his feet. "Good idea. Try to stay awake long enough to get in bed."

He pulls her into a hug, nuzzling her soft hair. "Thank you."

The shower is the best thing about the flat. The water pressure is impressive, and the supply of hot water seems limitless. He turns it on full and steps under the stinging spray that's filling the room with clouds of steam.

Sherlock is alive. For a moment, he pushes the hurt and anger away to just savor the simple fact. Not buried. Not gone forever. He had been standing in front of him an hour ago. Someone he had missed every day of the last two years, sometimes so much that it actually hurt.

He tips his head back and feels the spray on his face. He still misses him, and it still hurts. He misses what they had before. He misses who they were before. Whether they can be friends again or not, those people are gone.

He feels it coming, the result of emotional overload and alcohol-weakened resistance. He reaches blindly for a towel and jams it against his face to muffle the wracking sobs that keep him under the spray until the water finally grows cold.

End of Chapter 13

4


	14. Sherlock POV - Making the rounds

12/10/2014 16:45:33 a12/p12 - /tmp/uploads/FF_6036092_

Summary : Sherlock POV - making the rounds

It takes him a moment to realize where he is. The sensation has become a familiar one over the past two years, waking in a strange place, not knowing if he's in danger, or here by his own choice. Or able to leave, if he wants. He assesses quickly and remembers that he's home. Almost.

His return from the dead will be official tomorrow. His plan is to see Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson before they hear it on the news, but saving them the shock isn't his primary motive. He wants their first reactions, not what they choose to show him after they've had time to prepare. He hasn't been able to trust a single person he's encountered since he left. Whether the response to his return is positive or negative, it will be meaningless if he's can't trust that it's the truth.

Mycroft's driver is parked in front, leaning against the fender, reading a newspaper. He straightens up and opens the passenger door when Sherlock comes down the steps. "Good morning, sir."

Debatable. "Morning." He slides into the back seat.

The driver gets behind the wheel and turns to look at him. "Sir, your brother left this for you." He hands him an envelope. "He regrets that he will need the car for the rest of the day. I can take you to your destination this morning, but you'll be needing to take taxis after that." He smiles apologetically.

"That's fine." And not a surprise. He opens the envelope and finds a stack of twenty pound notes. "Bart's Hospital."

The driver touches his cap in acknowledgment and closes the privacy screen unasked. Apparently, his brother has forewarned the man to skip any attempts at small talk.

As they approach Bart's, he knocks on the window and the driver lowers it. "I want you to stop behind the ambulance station, not at the front door. I'll show you where."

He gets out at the same spot where he had John stand. He wants to see the roof from John's perspective. Every moment from that day is indelible, but he's never been able to picture what John saw. After the car pulls away, he looks up. He doesn't really know what he was expecting, but what he feels is disappointment. No revelation. No sense of what it was like for John. It's an empty rooftop. Nothing more.

He finds it less difficult than he expected to avoid being recognized. The path he takes is through the least traveled corridors, and he doesn't draw a single curious glance.

He waits for Molly in the locker room outside her lab just before lunch time, hoping she still stops to pick up her lunch bag on the way to the cafeteria. She sees him in the mirror when she opens the door to her locker, and it startles her less than he expected.

She turns and gives him her shy smile, but doesn't approach him. "You're back. How are you?"

It would be a perfectly acceptable greeting, if they had last seen each other a week ago. "I'm good. How have you been?" He starts towards her, and she backs up a step. He stops. She's still smiling, but there's something guarded about it.

"I'm sorry. You just surprised me." She closes the locker door, comes to him and takes his hands. Her fingers are icy. "I'm so glad you're safe. When did you get back?"

"I returned to London yesterday morning. It's good to see you, Molly." He clearly means it, and she blushes.

She lets go of his hands, suddenly looking awkward, not meeting his eyes. "Sherlock, about the last time we saw each other, I want you to know that I understand why you, um, kissed me."

That's good, because he doesn't. "Oh?"

"Yes, um, you were thinking about John and-" She stops. "No, I mean, I didn't mean you were... I meant you were worried about John, and it was just..." She takes a breath. "It was a comfort thing. I mean I know it wasn't... about me." She looks up at him. "I hope he's okay."

Her train of thought is mystifying. She is the only person he knows who can throw him off balance like this, doing nothing but being herself. "I know it was hard for you, not telling him the truth. There truly was no alternative."

She chews her lip for a moment. "You'll have to tell him, won't you? That I knew?"

"I already did. He asked."

Her eyes are downcast, and she nods. "He came to see me after your funeral. He...wanted your coat. I didn't have it, of course." She looks up, and the rest is in her eyes. "I almost called you that night. He was so upset." She stops, studying his face. Whatever she sees makes her take his hand and squeeze. "You're back. He'll be okay now."

"He'll understand, Molly. You don't have anything to apologize for, and he knows it."

She nods at the floor. "I hope so."

Long pause. He takes a breath and puffs it out. "You were on your way to lunch."

She lets go of his hand, and her smile comes back. "Yes. I'm meeting someone in the cafeteria. I'd invite you along, but it's, um, kind of a date."

He smiles. "Anyone I know?"

Her eyes crinkle at that. "Pretty sure not." She looks at her watch. "I should be going." She touches his arm lightly. "I'm so happy you're back."

"Me, too." He cups her chin lightly with two fingertips. "Have a nice lunch, Molly Hooper."

He glances back as the door closes behind him and sees her watching him, the fingertips of her right hand pressed to her lips.

He had started with Molly because he'd expected her to be the easiest to read. He hopes that doesn't prove to have been the case.

He briefly considers walking in the front entrance of Scotland Yard and straight into Lestrade's office, then decides that surprising a group of potentially armed men who were never exactly fans might not be wise. Instead, he waits in the underground car park for Lestrade to come down to sneak a cigarette. He doesn't have to wait very long.

"Those things will kill you."

Lestrade goes utterly still with the flame of his lighter hovering just short of the tip of the cigarette in his mouth. Seconds tick by, and Sherlock wonders if he should step out into the light, or take cover behind the pillar in case Lestrade's reaction is similar to John's.

The DI unfreezes, lowers the lighter and pulls the cigarette from his lips. "Oh, you _bastard_."

Sherlock takes a step into the light. "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg!"

Sherlock comes toward him, smiling at the joke no one ever seems to get. "Greg."

For a few seconds, it looks like he's about to get decked, but it turns out that Greg is winding up for a bear hug. No one, not even his mother, has ever hugged him with quite this level of enthusiasm, and it's mildly alarming at first, and then oddly... not. Greg finally lets him go and steps back.

"I owe Anderson a drink. I think he just saved me a heart attack." He blows out a breath that puffs his cheeks. "Where the hell have you been?"

"That's a fairly long story."

Greg's chuckle is a little shaky. "Yeah, I'm sure it is." He sobers, and just looks at him. Shakes his head. "You're actually _here_."

As honest first reactions go, this one is touching him in ways he didn't expect. "In the flesh."

Greg squints at him. "_How_?"

"An air bag, and a lot of help."

Greg nods. "Yeah, of course. You couldn't've pulled that off alone. Who helped? Your brother?"

"Yes. And Molly."

"Molly _Hooper_? Really?"

"And a dozen or so others on the ground to handle the logistics."

Greg nods at the floor, shifting awkwardly before he looks up. "You've been exonerated, you know. Just last week. Rich Brook was proved to be Moriarty's creation, not yours. For what it's worth, I never thought otherwise."

"I know."

"Yeah, well I'm sure it didn't look that way to you at the time." He clears his throat. "After you, uh, jumped, I kept thinking how the last thing you would have remembered about me was getting hauled away in cuffs." He looks up at Sherlock. "Not the last impression I would have liked."

"You were doing your job. Moriarty had it all planned from the start. You never had a choice." At Greg's dispirited nod, he adds. "And you know I'm not saying that to be polite." He smiles at his own joke.

Greg gets it and smiles back. "Yeah, that much hasn't changed."

There's an awkward pause. Greg puts the unlit cigarette back in his mouth and raises the lighter. "Mind if I smoke?"

Ah, common ground. "Do you have one for me?"

Greg hesitates, then takes the pack from his pocket and holds it out. "What happened to 'those things will kill you'?" He lights his own and then holds the lighter out for him.

"There are worse ways to go." He takes a deep drag and holds it, then tips his head back and exhales. "How did Sergeant Donovan take the news that I wasn't the kidnapper?"

He looks away for a moment. "She doesn't know you, Sherlock. I do, and I never should have let it get as far as it did. She made a good case. If it had been anybody but you, I might actually have agreed with her." He clears his throat. "She's lost her staunchest supporter, if that's any consolation. Anderson jumped ship. He's been singing your praises like a disciple."

"Anderson. Philip Anderson." His second biggest detractor?

"Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me, too. You know how people say that converts are the biggest fanatics? Well, Anderson is living proof. He started a website. Organized a club he calls 'The Empty Hearse'. Kept bringing me theories about how you faked your death. Cases from all over the world that he swore proved you were still out there doing your magic." He shakes his head. "And I told him he was crazy."

"He may be, but I'd like to see the theories." He has the oddest sense of deja vu. He's heard this before. "Do you think he'd like to share them with me?"

"If he doesn't have a heart attack first, yeah." Deep drag, exhale. "You can see 'em all on his website, too. He's got a lot of time on his hands now. Lost his job over all the time he spent trying to prove you were alive." He flicks the ash on the ground, then look sat Sherlock with his chin raised.

Sherlock recognizes the body language. He's about to get to the point.

"Have you seen John?"

"Yes. Last night."

"How'd he take it?"

Pause. "It could have gone better."

Greg crosses his arms. "What happened?"

Sherlock touches the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue. "I surprised him at dinner. He tried to throttle me, knock my teeth out, and break my nose. Not quite the welcome I was expecting."

"Christ, Sherlock. Didn't Mycroft-" He shakes his head in exasperation.

"Didn't Mycroft, what?"

Greg exhales. "Look. Your brother knows how bad things got with John. I just figured he'd have warned you off a stunt like that."

"It wouldn't have mattered."

Greg drops his cigarette and stomps it out. "It didn't go well. I get that, and I can't say I'm surprised. But I can tell you this: no matter what you said to each other, no matter what it looks like now, cross it off and start over." He holds out his hand, and Sherlock shakes it. "Bloody glad to see you alive, but if you ever pull anything like that again, I'll kill you myself."

No ambiguity there. He watches Greg walk back toward the stairway door, then heads in the opposite direction, half smiling at the thought of Philip Anderson, of all people, on his side.

Mycroft's envelope contains enough cab fare to take him on a tour of the city, and he finds a cabbie who's willing to follow his directions without debate. After three hours of nostalgic visits to crime scenes he worked with John, his mood is turning dark and it's time to move on.

It's past sunset when he gets out across the road from 221B and stands there taking it all in. The windows in his flat are dark, of course. Mycroft told him that it's vacant, and everything he owns is still there, covered with dust.

Eloquent dust. Home. Almost.

He has Mycroft's key, but he listens at the door for a moment, ear pressed to the wood. The key slips easily into the lock, and he opens it quietly. The inner door has had a squeaky hinge for as long as he's lived here, and he winces when he pushes it open.

Mrs. Hudson is standing just outside the open door to her flat, rubber gloves holding a dripping pan raised like a weapon. Her eyes widen and she starts screaming like a banshee.

He approaches her slowly, both hands up in a calming gesture. "It's me. I'm not dead." He keeps repeating it until he's standing within reach.

She stops screaming, looks up at him for a moment, then hurls herself into his chest, weeping like a child.

When he can finally pry her loose to look at her, she is beaming. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, Sherlock," is all she can say, over and over.

He's smiling over her head, but his throat is tight. The intensity of her emotional response is a bit stunning, and his reaction surprises him.

She makes him tea, of course. Her kitchen hasn't changed at all, and neither has she. The rush of affection and sense of home feel like sunlight.

She can't seem to stop smiling at him, one hand pressed to her heart. "Oh, Sherlock, I can't believe it. I just can't believe it." She gives him a plate of biscuits that he could live on for a week. "John was just here yesterday. First time I've seen or heard from him in almost two years. It's as if he knew you were coming. Did he?"

"No, he didn't." It's interesting, though. He wonders what prompted the visit, and then he knows. "He came to tell you about Mary?"

She presses her lips tightly for a moment. "Yes, he did." Her eyes are soft with sympathy. "He didn't know you were coming back, Sherlock. I guess he couldn't wait any longer."

He smiles. "You never give up, do you? We weren't together, Mrs. Hudson. I'm glad he found someone." At her dubious look, he reaches across the table and lays his hand over hers. "It's okay. Really."

She studies him, then smiles. "Do you want to move in tonight? The place is so dusty you'll sneeze yourself silly, but you're welcome. You know that. I'll go to the market tomorrow and pick up whatever you need." She sits back and beams at him. "I'm just so happy to see you, Sherlock. I can't get over it."

She takes him on a tour of his home, and he's surprised to find that his belongings are all packed in sealed boxes, labeled with the contents by room.

"I was going to give the science stuff to a school, but I never got around to it. Your clothes are all packed. They'll all smell of cardboard, but at least you'll have something to change into." She hugs his arm. "Your dressing gowns are in the box marked 'loo'."

She makes a fresh pot of tea, and leaves him with the huge plate of biscuits. "If you need anything at all, you just call me." She hugs him tightly, then goes back to her flat.

There truly is thick dust on every surface. Even the couch, he discovers when he drops down onto it. A cloud rises all around him and makes him sneeze, just as she promised.

It's only a matter of minutes before he goes up the stairs to John's room. He's only been here once before in all the time they've lived here. He was looking for case notes that John had scribbled in a notebook because his laptop was out of commission. They had replaced it the next day.

He walks over to the bed and pulls out the drawer in John's bedside table, not really expecting to see the laptop there where John kept it. The drawer is empty, but something round rolls to the back as he pulls it out. He reaches inside and comes up with a sharpened pencil, white with metallic blue embossed letters. Cross Keys Inn. Tooth marks on the barrel conjure the image of John sitting at the table with the pencil held in his mouth like a bit, both hands on the keyboard of the laptop. He puts the pencil back where he found it and closes the drawer. The bed is stripped, and he wonders if the pillows would still carry their former owner's familiar scent. Unlikely after all this time, and it bothers him that the thought even occurred.

Back in the sitting room, he locates his own laptop in the third box he searches, all of them marked 'Desk'. He plugs it into the outlet by the sofa and sets it up on the coffee table. While he waits for it to boot up and find the Internet, he locates the box marked 'loo', removes his jacket and shoes, and puts on a very stale smelling blue dressing gown. Mrs. Hudson will have a lot of laundry to do tomorrow.

He has to admit that the website title is pretty creative. 'The Empty Hearse'. Anderson has surprised him for the first time since he met the man. The layout of the site is less inspired than the title, and the contents are, not surprisingly, rife with wild speculation and poorly drawn conclusions. Chortling at Anderson's idiocy is the first entertainment he's had in a very long time.

He can't seem to shake the sensation that Greg's mention isn't the first time he's heard of this site. He allows a moment for his mind to come up with a connection, then shrugs it off when nothing clicks.

He returns to the main page. Down the left side is a list of links to related websites, and John's blog is the first entry, and he clicks on it. The familiar page pops up, and he scrolls through the entries. Browsing, not reading, he notes that the entries halted with his suicide, then resumed with sporadic, angry responses from John to the rising tide of ridicule for the fake genius. Finally, all comments were blocked, and there was a long period of no entries until last week, the day Sherlock's exoneration was in the news. John made a single-line update, and unblocked the comments. '_I told you so. - JW'_

The period when no entries were made has him wondering if John truly had nothing to record, or if he had just made the entries private. Curiosity spurs action, and it takes only a few tries to unlock the section that begins much earlier than he expected, several months before the day they met at Bart's. The entries are brief, and obviously made under protest. He remembers that John mentioned his therapist's penchant for blogging in the same tone that he often commented on body parts in the fridge.

Scrolling forward, he finds the date closest to his suicide. Two days afterward, in fact. It's not a brief entry, he can tell without opening it, and suddenly he's not sure he wants to. He sits back on the couch and stares at the blinking cursor until the screen saver comes on and blots it out.

He gets up and walks to the window, then turns and comes back to the couch and clicks on the link before he can change his mind.

_'I knew you would have the last word. It's your defining characteristic.'_

It's John's voice in his head, and it makes him smile. He reads a few more lines, and it's clear that this is a letter to him. The thought of John sitting at this laptop, typing these words in his determined two-finger style, is simultaneously comforting and deeply upsetting.

He wanted honest first reactions. There could be no more honest reaction than what he would read here, written by the most honest man he's ever known, straight from his huge heart in the immediate aftermath of the worst thing Sherlock has ever done to him or anyone else. He doesn't know if he's ready to hear it.

He closes the lid and goes in search of fortification. They had a bottle of scotch tucked away in the cabinets. He imagines Mrs. Hudson has made off with it by now, but he looks anyway, and finds it in the cabinet next to the sink. He rummages for a glass, takes both back to the couch and places them on the table next to the laptop.

He pours four fingers of scotch into the glass and opens the lid of the laptop. John's blog entry glows at him. He drains half of the glass, refills it, and starts to read.

He gets only a few paragraphs into it before he understands. Honesty is what he wanted. Anger is an honest emotion. So are disappointment and betrayal. There's no need to read the rest. The conclusion is obvious. He had a demonstration of it last night.

What he had said to Greg was more true than he'd known. It wouldn't have mattered whether he had called John and warned him, or burst in the way he did. The reaction would have been the same.

He had known all along that saving John's life could mean giving up any chance of saving their friendship. It would have been nice to be wrong, just this one time.

He closes the lid and pulls the charger plug from the wall, then takes his glass of mediocre scotch to the window. The glass is long empty when he sets it down on the sill and starts hunting through boxes for his violin.

End of Chapter 14

Note: The blog Sherlock starts to read is chapter 5.

8


	15. John POV - the bonfire and the bomb

"He saved your life, John. I would never have found you in time, let alone been able to pull you out. If you could have seen the way he pushed through that crowd and reached into the flames to find you..." Mary waits until he looks up from his plate of scrambled eggs. "You _have_ to talk to him now. To thank him, if nothing else."

He knows she won't believe him, much less understand. "He doesn't want me to thank him. It's the very last thing he would want, in fact."

She studies him, and he can see that she's trying to accept his assessment. He can also see the instant she decides that he's wrong.

"No, John. You have to see him. The longer you wait, the harder it's going to be."

It's already harder than she knows, but she's right. It's not going to get any easier. "All right. I'll go this morning." It's Saturday, and he doesn't even have the excuse of work.

She gets up from her chair and hugs him. "You won't regret it," she whispers in his ear, and then kisses his cheek. "I'm going to have a shower. Don't rush back. I have errands to run, and I'll be gone for most of the afternoon, too."

After she heads upstairs, he refills his coffee cup and sips carefully. The only residual effects from last night are the cuts on his forehead and temple, a distorted sense of smell (everything smells vaguely burned), and a peculiar lack of temperature sensitivity in his lips. He's been told it's all temporary. It better be, especially the temperature issue. The coffee feels cold to his lips, and near scalding by contrast when it comes in contact with his wide-awake tongue.

He has a renewed respect for fire. When he was grabbed and injected last night, he'd really thought he was going to die on the spot. The drug hit his system with a sweeping paralysis that he expected to halt his breathing. The irony of dying on his way to reconcile (maybe) with his resurrected friend wasn't lost on him, even as he was sliding into the darkness. Waking up to the smothering stench of burning pine sap and the laughter of children was as disorienting as the drug. Voiceless, nearly paralyzed, but fully aware of the encroaching flames, knowing for the second time that he was about to die, he had thought Sherlock's voice was an hallucination. Sherlock, literally screaming his name. And then Mary's voice joined in. His mind would not have hallucinated them together, and he knew they were really there, coming to save him.

Sherlock's gloved hand cradling his face was vibrating with adrenaline. John wasn't able to focus on his eyes, but he had heard the panic in his voice, and there was a small, uncharitable part of him that felt vindicated. It wasn't quite the same experience he'd forced on John, of course. To come close to what he'd put John through, someone would have had to make him stand back and listen to John burn to death in the fire, unable to get close enough to save him.

He'd lost track of both of them when the ambulance took him away. At the hospital with an oxygen mask strapped to his face that he kept having to lift out of the way so he could tell them he was fine and would sign himself out AMA if necessary, he found Mary again. Sherlock never reappeared.

"He stayed to make sure you were okay, but he wouldn't come in with me. He said you don't want to see him," Mary had told him. He couldn't fathom where either of them had gotten that idea.

Mary wants him to let Sherlock explain why he made John believe he was dead. There's no point trying to make her understand that no explanation can change how he feels. But he made the mistake of allowing her to see how much Sherlock had meant to him, and she is not going to let this go.

Which is how he came to be climbing the stairs to 221B with no idea what to say or expect. He didn't linger out front the way he'd done yesterday. The memory of being ambushed outside the door while he'd been wool gathering instead of watching his own back made that not an option. He'd been out of practice. Without Sherlock in his life, there'd been no need. Now that he's back, John's battle-sharpened survival instincts need to come back online. No situation now can be commonplace enough to permit anything short of full vigilance.

When he opens the door, Sherlock is standing on the sofa facing the wall, an elderly man and woman seated on either side of him. Clients, John assumes, and immediately seizes the opportunity to back out, if not gracefully, at least with justification enough to satisfy Mary.

"John!" Sherlock hops down from the sofa and literally shoves the couple out the door, but the woman wedges her shoe in the way (odd, unless she's not a client but someone he knows), and they exchange a few quiet words before he closes the door and turns to John.

The couple, Sherlock tells him, are not clients, but his exceptionally unexceptional-looking parents. That explains the foot block at the door, and the whispered exchange that had Sherlock looking a little uncomfortable when he turned around. A sudden thought occurs to John, and he asks if they had been among the 'couple of others' who knew he wasn't dead.

Sherlock's snarky "Sorry again!" is followed by a softer "Sorry", and a convincingly sincere inquiry into how he's feeling after last night. The combination is so human that it has John wondering for an instant if this is really Sherlock, or just the second worst practical joke ever conceived.

It was inevitable that they would sidestep the real reason John is here, and move directly into the comfortable distance of looking at Sherlock's current case, the Terrorist Plot. It was equally inevitable that John would follow him down into the bowels of the Tube station where the clues led them, disregarding his loudly blaring internal alarms and all common sense, straight into the explosives-filled missing carriage.

And then the bomb comes to life, the timer kicks on, and his future shrinks abruptly to 2 minutes and 25 seconds. The Mind Palace apparently has no answers, and Sherlock begs, literally on his knees, for John's forgiveness "for all the hurt I caused you", and every instinct screams that this can't be real. Not any of it. He's being played again, and he's not falling for it. Except that there's nothing false in those eyes, and there's no time left to do anything but repeat the words he said from the heart two years ago because there had truly been nothing in the world he'd wanted more than for Sherlock to come back. He grants Sherlock's dying wish, "Of course, I forgive you", and finds that he wants to mean it just as much as he had wanted him not to be dead.

He always knew somehow that it would end this way. The final seconds of his life tick by, and it's an odd feeling, waiting for the blast and wondering if he'll even know when it happens. Waiting while the passing seconds mock the years he should have had with the woman who saved his life.

And waiting. He opens his eyes.

Sherlock is...giggling? Wait. What?

Words fail him, and then they don't.

"I KNEW it. You COCK!" And his wounded dignity prompts a threat that isn't all that empty. "If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear, I will kill you."

"Oh, please. Killing me. That's so two years ago." Then he looks up at John with that little boy smirk that just makes him angrier because it also makes him want to smile at how much he missed seeing it, even at his own expense, as it almost always is.

They head up to the surface, past team after team of the police Sherlock wouldn't let him call because he'd already done it. Bomb disposal's job has already been done, at least the hard part, courtesy of John's maddening friend with the flick of the switch that he knew all along had to be there.

Greg Lestrade finds them when they reach street level at the top of the stairs amid flashing lights, news crews, yellow tape and controlled chaos. He smiles at Sherlock, and then he notices John is there too, and the smile turns into a broad grin. He claps them both on the shoulder. "I see you got the band back together."

Sherlock gives Greg a look. "Just giving it a go," and he smiles. Greg smiles back and they exchange a look. When Greg turns to answer a question, Sherlock gives John a bewilderingly fond smile.

Greg turns back, still grinning. "You two need to come back with me and give your statements."

John's statement is short and not really necessary, but he doesn't mind being asked. Greg had tried to include him on a case a few months after Sherlock's suicide (he doesn't know what else to call it, even now), but it was just too painful. Being here now, sitting back to watch Lestrade and Sherlock debate, is the opposite of painful. The contrast tightens his throat for a moment, and he coughs. "I need some coffee."

They both stop talking and look at him, and John wonders how much of what he's feeling shows on his face, so he gets up and heads for the door. "You girls carry on."

He's still smiling when he walks out into the room where Greg's team share desk space, and finds himself the focus of some curious glances that quickly flick away when he meets them. 'Yes, he's back', he thinks. 'Deal with it.' A bit mean-spirited, considering Sherlock tormented them all deliberately, but then he remembers how these same officers manhandled Sherlock down the stairs in cuffs that night, and his sympathy evaporates along with his smile.

He finds the coffee machine and digs through his pockets for change. While he's waiting for the cup to fill, he turns and watches Greg and Sherlock through the half closed blinds on the glass walls that enclose his office. They're clearly not talking about the bomb anymore. Greg has his head thrown back, laughing at something Sherlock just said. John can tell from the smirk on Sherlock's face that he's very pleased with himself, and John wonders when he learned to be funny.

By the time he rejoins them, Sherlock is ready to leave. When they get outside, Sherlock hails a cab with his usual uncanny efficiency. John has tried his technique on his own, and it never works. Maybe it's the coat.

When the cab pulls up in front of 221B, Sherlock hands the fare to the cabbie. While John's mouth is still hanging open in surprise, Sherlock gets out and then leans down to look at him. "Do you have time to come up?"

The man has never paid for a cab that both of them were in, not once in all the time they've known each other. John follows him wordlessly though the front door where Mrs. Hudson swoops out of her flat and hugs them both.

"I've just made some biscuits. Can I bring you a plate?"

Sherlock hugs her shoulders. "Maybe later."

She looks at John. "Of course. Just let me know." She goes back to her door, then turns to give them another delighted smile, and closes the door behind her.

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, and John follows in his wake. Once inside the flat, Sherlock crosses to the window, still in his coat. John walks to his chair and sits. He's feeling no need to fill the silence. It's Sherlock's move, not his.

"You have questions." He's still got his back to the room, looking down at the street.

John waits until Sherlock turns around. "It's not that simple. You can't do what you did, then expect to come back and explain it all away. There's no point asking questions when the answers don't matter anymore."

"You don't care how I did it. You don't care why, either?"

"Knowing the cause doesn't change the effect."

Sherlock puts both hands in his coat pockets and turns back to the window. "So, you don't actually forgive me."

John's exasperated laugh turns Sherlock around. "You make me believe I have two minutes to live so you can coerce me into absolving you, and now you're questioning whether I told you the truth with what I thought was my last breath."

"I meant what I said."

Sherlock is looking at him with the same intensity that had convinced him the bomb was going to go off. He realizes that he will never be able to believe him beyond all doubt, and it makes his chest ache in a sadly familiar way. "Sherlock, I know you meant it, but that doesn't make it true."

He comes back from the window and flops into his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets. The expression on his face is so close to a pout that it makes John smile. That turns the pout into a scowl. "What can possibly be funny?"

It's the opposite of funny, but that's how they seem to affect each other. Friends should have complementary flaws, good balancing bad to mutual benefit. It's never worked that way with them. Sherlock could lead him into the gates of hell, and he would follow willingly along wondering why it was suddenly so fricking hot. They're characters straight out of Aesop's fables, living examples of what not to do. "Have you heard the one about the frog and the scorpion?"

Sherlock's scowl melts into confusion topped by the familiar horizontal crease on the bridge of his nose. "What?"

It's quite a feat to wrong foot the man, and he savors the moment. "It's a fable. A frog and a scorpion are sitting at the edge of a river, both needing to cross. The scorpion asks the frog to let him ride across on his back. The frog points out that the scorpion could kill him with a single sting, but the scorpion promises not to, so they start across. Halfway to the other side, the scorpion stings the frog, and the frog starts to go down. He says 'We are both going to drown. Why did you break your promise?' The scorpion says, 'You knew what I was. It's my nature.'"

Sherlock sighs. "You employed a bit of license, but I have heard it." Pause. "I'm the scorpion."

"And I've been the frog for as long as I've known you. I don't expect you to change your nature. I accept that it's not possible. I'm not asking you to apologize because I know you can't grasp what you did."

"But you won't forgive me."

Pause. "Not for everything." Deep breath. "Thank you for saving my life."

Sherlock nods, looking down at the floor between them. "Thank you for not dying." He looks up at John, and there's much more in those eyes than in his words.

Their gazes hold for a long moment, and then John clears his throat. "Mary is expecting me." He get to his feet. "I need to talk to her before she sees us on the news."

Sherlock stays in his chair. "Give her my best."

When he gets down to the street, the first cab he hails glides to a stop in front of him.

Sherlock walks to the window and watches John get into a cab. How much sooner would he have had to come back to stop this from happening? Six months? Three? If he had come back before John met Mary, would anything be different?

Would John have made it this long without her?

John has begun to believe what everyone has been trying to tell him since they met. Sherlock is toxic, dead or alive. John doesn't even seem to be angry anymore. Just... resigned.

The opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference.

Caring isn't an advantage, Mycroft is right. But it isn't a matter of choice, either. It hasn't been for a long time. He knew the instant he saw John at the pool wrapped in Semtex that life would never be the same. The identical sensation had all but overwhelmed him last night when he'd realized what was about to happen to John, and what the consequences would be. He would have gladly changed places with him in that fire. If he hadn't been able to pull him free before he was harmed- but he can't even imagine that outcome.

Mycroft should have left him in Serbia. He was only a few days away from death, and he had accepted that. And John had been there with him. The voice in his head has changed since he came back. At the crime scene with Molly, John's voice was different. The frank admiration was gone. In its place was a ringing disapproval that had distracted and stabbed where it had once praised and supported.

He should be able to shut out what he's feeling, not wallow in it. He blames two years of being exposed only to strangers whose opinions didn't matter. He's out of practice. His current emotional turmoil is unacceptable, and dangerous not just to himself. He recognizes the start of a downward spiral that will be hard to stop unless he does something about it now.

He remembers the number, of course. It's been years, but he knows it's still good. Drugs dealers can't afford to discourage repeat business by changing their numbers. He pulls the phone from his coat pocket and taps it in.

End of chapter 15

6


	16. Sherlock - Bahnsen - Mycroft - John

Evading Mycroft's oddly obvious surveillance team was so simple that he might just as well have walked up to the car, tapped on the window, and told them to leave him alone. They had barely made an effort to keep up with his taxi beyond the first turn. It has him wondering if Mycroft has upped his game and is double-teaming him: One car in relatively plain view to divert his attention from a second that he has yet to spot. He watches the traffic through several more turns that he directs the driver to take, but sees nothing suspicious and sets them back on track to his true destination.

"You can let me out at the next corner," he tells the driver.

The man glances at him in the mirror. "You know what you're doing, then? Don't exactly seem like a local, and this is a dodgy place in daylight, never mind this time of night."

He had hailed this cab from Marylebone, dressed in his most anonymous oversized hooded jacket and Wayfarer glasses dark enough to hide his eyes. The driver hadn't hesitated to pick him up, but he'd given him a worried look when Sherlock had told him where he wanted to go. "Right here is good." He hands him the fare plus a healthy tip.

The driver leans over to look at him when he gets out. "Do you want me to wait?"

Without much effort, Sherlock sees the devout churchman, grandfather, volunteer drug counselor. The kind eyes would be obvious to anyone. "I'll be fine." He gives the roof of the cab a dismissing pat. "Have a good evening." He waits until the driver pulls away before he turns and starts walking back in the direction they came.

He turns left at the next street and heads for his destination halfway down the unlit block. There were places nearer Baker Street, but he chose the familiar over convenience. This dealer and his favorite place to do business take the guessing out of what to expect.

It's a pub no more than twenty-five feet wide with a window that's nearly opaque with layers of dirt, and a heavy wooden door with a hasp and padlock, both fixed in the open position. The sign hanging from a crossbar over the door says 'PUB'. The muffled sound of a sports broadcast inside swells as he opens the door and steps into the smoky dimness, then stands to the side and takes off his glasses.

A quick scan of the occupants raises no alarms. Four men stand at the waist-high counter on the right nursing pints, eyes on the ancient television mounted on the wall above shelves lined with dusty bottles. A row of booths on the left are all unoccupied. Straight ahead is a doorway with a red "toilets" sign above it. The man farthest from the door is wearing a red cap. He meets Sherlock's eyes and nods. Sherlock heads for the men's toilet and waits.

When he exits the pub through the back door to the alley three minutes later, he finds a black Focus that he remembers seeing on the last turn idling six feet away with the passenger door standing open. The driver leans over and smiles. "Did you lose my number?"

Jared Bahnsen. Mycroft's mystery tail, apparently. "You're very resourceful. How long have you been following me?"

"Get in and I'll tell you." Pause. "I'll take you home so we can have a proper chat. Then you're free to make use of your purchase unmolested, and you'll never see me again." He sits back behind the wheel and waits.

It does solve the matter of finding a cab that will stop for him in this neighborhood, at least. He gets in and pulls the door shut. "So, Jared. I thought your bodyguard assignment ended when we landed."

Bahnsen pulls out of the alley onto the main road and takes a left. "It did. I asked for an extension."

"_You_ asked? Why?"

Jared chuckles. "I'm a little bit OCD. I hate leaving a job half done."

Sherlock studies him in the light from the instrument panel. "What job is that?"

They've stopped at the intersection, and Bahnsen looks both ways several times. "You don't happen to know which way is quickest, do you? I'm not from around here."

"Left." He turns to the window. "Don't mistake my getting in the car for cooperation. Cabs are hard to get in this neighborhood."

Jared glances at him. "Fair enough. Don't mistake my charm for a lack of determination. I am coming in, and we are going to talk."

The rest of the trip is silent. Bahnsen parks across the road from 221B in the spot formerly occupied by Mycroft's surveillance car. Sherlock turns to him before he opens his door. "I can save you some time. It's a temporary measure, not a relapse. I probably won't even make another buy after this, and I'm not going to kill myself."

"I hear you. Now, can we go up? I need the loo."

It would be easier to stop him from coming up than to make him leave once he's there, but Sherlock wants to put an end to the covert shadowing. He would also like to find out how he's been doing it. He gets out and Bahnsen follows.

Inside the flat, he points Bahnsen in the direction of the bathroom, then walks to his leather chair and sinks into it without removing his jacket. His guest reappears, drying his hands on his jeans. He pauses in the kitchen. "Got any coffee? Tea's okay, but I prefer the hard stuff." Smile. "No pun intended."

"You're not staying that long."

Bahnsen crosses his arms. "Why did you let me come up? For that matter, why didn't you just tell me to fuck off in the alley?"

"I needed a ride, and you asked to use the loo. Don't read into it."

Bahnsen nods, lips pursed. "Fair enough, but I did say that we were going to have a proper chat. You're not afraid to talk to me for ten minutes, are you?"

That deserves an eye roll. "If that was intended to challenge my manhood and get me to talk, it was pretty clumsy."

Bahnsen comes over to John's chair and sits down uninvited. "So you're not afraid to talk about what's bothering you. That's something of an improvement since the last time I saw you."

"Why don't you tell me why you're really here."

"I already did. I don't like leaving a job half-done."

"And as I asked the first time, what job is that?"

Bahnsen puffs out a breath like a man preparing to pick up something heavy. "You spent two years undercover with your life on the line every day to take down a criminal network single-handed, spent weeks isolated in a freezing cell in a Serbian prison, and withstood brutal torture, only to come home to discover that everything you thought you were protecting with all of that has disappeared. Most people would find that pretty upsetting."

"None of that involves you." Explaining himself has become exhausting and pointless.

"I disagree. You and I have more in common than you know, and I've had the sense since we met that you're heading down a very familiar road. I was on it myself four years ago, and I would have followed it all the way to the end if I hadn't run into someone who gave enough of a damn to stop me."

Sherlock sits back. Mycroft must have seen something that he's missed. Past the surface he'd seen in Greece, he's picking up the crusading altruist with a savior complex. "I'm not your karmic debt."

Bahnsen smiles. "Actually you are, and I'm yours. That's how it works. We'll justify each other's existence. Not a bad outcome, considering the alternative. I'm also the best sounding board you're going to find because I know what you're going through. I'm here to give you someone to unload on who won't be offended or hold it over you later. Someone who you can insult with impunity, whose feelings don't matter to you. I can help you find a way to deal with this instead of burying it with drugs. It won't stay buried, you know. And when it digs its way out, the damage will be global."

He realizes he's actually considering the offer. Psychiatrists have never worked for him. Their focus is always to find a name for what he is and explain it away. He would never talk to Mycroft about it because it would come back to haunt him the first time his brother needed leverage against him. Most of all, admitting to Mycroft that he had let his attachment to another person affect him this deeply would be acknowledging that his warnings had been right all along.

"Talking about it doesn't change what happened." He's aware he's paraphrasing the most painful thing John said to him. The words that told him just how totally he's fucked it up for all time.

"Memory is a tricky thing, Sherlock. You've already rewritten it, no matter how photographic you think it is. You remember exactly what John said to you, but you can't really know what he meant. You applied your experience and your guilt to it and came up with what you believe he was saying. Your revised memory becomes fact. Talking about it will help you see that your interpretation is exactly that: an interpretation, and it's more likely than not to be wrong. Accept that, and doors start to open that you thought were sealed forever."

"I apologized and he forgave me."

Bahnsen waits for the rest, then frowns. "I heard a 'but'."

"I tricked him into it. He thought the bomb was about to go off."

"And you knew it wasn't."

He looks at the dark fireplace. "I knew it wasn't."

Bahnsen clears his throat, and Sherlock looks at him. Bahnsen opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. "Why would you do that?"

Sherlock looks at him. "I wanted him to forgive me, obviously."

Bahnsen's short laugh makes Sherlock's back stiffen. "I'm happy to be so entertaining."

"Sorry, mate, but that's the most convoluted logic I've ever heard. You lied to him, knowing he would shortly find out it was a lie, and your goal was to coerce him into forgiving you under circumstances that would make any court throw out a murder confession. Did you even mean the apology?"

Pause. "Yes."

"But you made sure that he wouldn't believe you because the entire premise was a lie. That's pretty twisted."

Sherlock stares at him. "I take it I'm your first intervention. Your technique needs work."

Bahnsen sobers. "What did he do when the bomb didn't go off?"

Sherlock's gaze starts moving around the room, pausing nowhere and avoiding Bahnsen. "Not much. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone what he said. I think he was joking." He looks at Bahnsen finally. "I don't think this is working. And your ten minutes are up."

"What happened when you brought him back here? He didn't stay long."

Sherlock gives him a narrow look. "Did you follow us into the tunnel, too? I could have used a hand with the bomb." In that 30 seconds before he'd found the switch, the guilt and regret had all but overwhelmed him. Despite what he'd told John, he didn't know there was a switch until his panicked flailing had fumbled onto it.

Bahnsen repeats his question. "What happened?"

Deep breath. "It isn't just about the bomb. You know he thought I killed myself in front of him two years ago?"

"Not until I started researching you online. He didn't know that was a trick, and you let him see you jump?"

"Not 'let' him. I made him watch. And you can stop looking shocked, I know how it sounds, but there truly was no alternative." He's so tired of repeating the words he's no longer even sure he believes. "His life was in danger."

"You traded your friendship for his life. Potentially."

There's no safe way to answer that question, so he doesn't try.

Bahnsen sits back and studies him for a long moment. "What happens now?"

It's not what he was expecting. "Isn't this where you tell me that it's not as dark as it appears, and everything will be fine if I just keep trying?"

"Is that what you want to hear?"

No, it's suddenly the one thing he wants most in the world to be true. "Don't patronize me."

Bahnsen seems to sense he's closing in. "Would you be able to forgive him if the situation was reversed?"

It's an absurd question. "John would never do anything approaching what I did."

"Not even if your life was in danger?"

Nicely played. John killed a man to save him less than 36 hours after they met. If the circumstances called for it, Sherlock has no doubt he would do it again. He's already tried to get a sense of what it had been like for him and failed. Imaging himself on the ground looking up at John on the ledge is another matter entirely. He couldn't have forgiven him because he would not have survived to see him come back.

"He's already saved my life more than once." In more ways than he can say. And his reward was two years of needless grieving for someone who didn't deserve a moment of it.

Bahnsen leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging lightly clasped together between them. "I know that look. I saw it in the mirror every day for two years. I was wrong, and so are you."

"You don't know." His throat is tight, and it strangles his voice to a whisper. "I need you to go."

Bahnsen's voice is rough. "Not a chance, mate." He sits back and gives them both some space. "My best friend's name was John, too."

Sherlock manages a snort. "Because it would stretch credulity for his name to have been Sherlock."

Bahnsen chuckles, and it lightens the atmosphere a bit. "I know, but I'm not making this up. My best friend's name was John. We were mates from primary school and shared a flat at uni. We were opposites in pretty much every way, but we were closer than most brothers." All levity is gone now. "I didn't find out he was gay until we were almost out of uni. He'd been spending time away from the flat with a bloke he was tutoring in physics. I came back to the flat one afternoon when I had planned to be away until late that night. I had forgotten my car keys and went back to get them. John was there with his friend, and it was pretty obvious that they weren't studying, or expecting company.

"I moved out, and he thought it was because he was gay. It wasn't. I couldn't have cared less whether he fancied women or men or sodding kangaroos, for Christ's sake. It just killed me that he thought he had to hide it from me. He tried to talk to me, but I wasn't ready. I never knew what it was he wanted to tell me until afterwards. He died in a car crash. His boyfriend was driving, and he came out of it with barely a scratch.

"I couldn't go to the funeral, but his friend came to see me a few days later. He was as angry as anyone I've ever seen. He told me I broke John's heart. They had been fighting about me in the car when he ran it into a ditch. The last thing John was thinking before he died was what a bastard I was. All I would have had to do was man up and hear what he had to say."

Bahnsen goes silent for a long moment, his gaze on the window behind Sherlock. And then he looks directly at him. "I dropped out of uni and joined the army. Got into special forces and tried every way I could find to get myself killed. About the fourth time I was being treated by the same medic for a near miss, he checked me for drugs, and we ended up having a chat. He said he wouldn't turn me in if I would let him help me."

Sherlock blows out a breath. "It was a misunderstanding. You didn't deliberately deceive your friend."

"How well do you think John Watson will handle it when you end up destroying yourself because he didn't forgive you? You owe him the chance to change his mind. It will be your penance." He leans forward, his right hand extended palm up. "And give me the drugs."

"No."

"Give me the drugs, or I'm your new shadow. And you know I can do it." He lowers his hand, giving a bit of ground. His voice softens. "You don't want to do this to John. I know you're in pain now, but that's no excuse for inflicting worse on the people who care about you."

Sherlock lets out another long breath. "You know I can just buy more."

Bahnsen nods. "You can. I hope you will consider what you'll be giving up before you do. I think you will."

Their gazes lock and hold. Sherlock reaches into his jacket pocket and comes up with a glass vial of injectable cocaine and three packets of heroin. Bahnsen's eyes narrow at the quantity, but he accepts the items without comment and slips them into his own coat.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Sherlock leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "No. Thanks. I'm fine."

Jared Bahnsen goes to the door and opens it, then pauses just before he closes it behind him. "You've still got my number. Don't make me track you down again."

Sherlock sits with his eyes closed until it's obvious that he's not going to fall asleep in the chair. He gets to his feet, more exhausted than he can ever remember, and curls up on the couch. The two remaining bottles of cocaine in his pocket clink together when he turns over, and he gets up to put them in his kit.

* * *

"You keep interesting hours," Bahnsen comments as he settles into the leather chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft glances automatically at his watch although he knows perfectly well that it's just past midnight. "As do you. You have something to report?"

Bahnsen purses his lips for a moment. "Just to be clear, I don't report to you, Mr. Holmes. I asked to continue working with your brother because I think I can help him, but any time his best interests and yours conflict, his will win. That's the only way this works."

Mycroft rests his arms on the desk and leans forward. "There is no one more interested in my brother's welfare than I, Captain." He holds the man's gaze for a moment, then sits back. "Now, you asked to see me. What about?"

Bahnsen reaches into his coat pocket and holds out the drugs Sherlock gave him earlier. Mycroft lowers his gaze to the bottles and packets, his expression neutral. "Are you sure that's everything he had? Did you check?"

"You mean, did I frisk him? No, I didn't. He may have held something back. It doesn't matter." He places the bottles and packets on the desk and sits back. "Getting the drugs away from him wasn't the point. I was there to help him find a reason not to use them."

Mycroft steeples his fingers under his chin, elbows on the desk. "Continue."

"You saw what he went through in Serbia. He's stronger than even _you_ know, but he used up all his reserves getting through that. He wasn't ready to handle another direct hit. When John Watson basically told him to piss off a few hours ago, it sent him straight over the edge."

This outcome has been at the top of Mycroft's list of concerns for his brother since Dr. Watson came into his life. Mycroft has always recognized the inevitability of John moving on. Sherlock was going to lose the only human being on earth whose love and respect he truly needs, no matter what Mycroft did. All he could do was hope to prepare him for it, a task at which he has failed. "What do you propose?"

Bahnsen pulls out a small notepad from his pocket. "I want to talk to Watson. I can find him, but an address would save time."

"No, Captain. I will be meeting with John myself. He won't talk to you about Sherlock. He may not talk to me, either, but I have the better chance. You and I will discuss afterwards where John's attitude leads us." He hesitates on the next question. "Is it your opinion, then, that he is in no immediate danger of doing himself deliberate harm?"

Bahnsen puts his notebook away. "No, I don't think he's suicidal, or I would not have left him alone. It would help to have eyes inside the flat. Your men told me they haven't found a way to hide a camera that he doesn't spot right away."

Mycroft permits himself a moment of brotherly pride. "I've seen him come into the flat after a new camera is placed, watched him pause, and then walk directly to the camera and give it the finger. My technical people tell me they think he can hear the radio frequency. Whatever the reason, we have very limited success with video surveillance inside his building."

"I was going to suggest that your decoy surveillance has outlived its usefulness, since he knows I'm here now, but I could use the help, if that's still an option." He smiles. "They will have to be a bit less obvious than parking in front of the building, of course."

Mycroft's answering smile is thin. "Of course. How long do you anticipate continuing your involvement?"

Bahnsen gets to his feet. "That will depend on the outcome of your meeting."

Mycroft stands and extends his hand. Bahnsen shakes it briefly. "I will text you with a time for us to talk again. I expect to meet with him this afternoon."

Bahnsen nods. "I'll let you know if anything changes." He lets himself out and closes the door.

Mycroft sinks back into the plush leather and closes his eyes. He has no idea what he'll say to John. He is sorely tempted to simply reveal all he knows of the woman John knows as Mary Morstan, but while the immediate results might be positive, he knows how Sherlock would react when he discovered what Mycroft had done. Interference with John Watson is something Sherlock would never forgive. All Mycroft can hope is that John's concern for Sherlock is sufficiently strong to make him listen.

The drugs on his desk are a silent rebuke of his failure to protect his brother. For just a moment, he indulges the thought of what it would have been like to preserve the relationship they'd had when Sherlock was a child. What it would have been like to have his brother love and trust him the way he does John Watson. Protecting Sherlock by isolating him may have been necessary, but the cost continues to rise. And the memory of that long ago little boy's admiring adoration is too painful to consider.

He presses the intercom button on his the desk and calls his PA to come dispose of the drugs, then picks up his briefcase and umbrella, and heads for home.

* * *

For all the times John has bemoaned Mycroft's tendency to kidnap him from the street and have him spirited off to clandestine locations in the back of a black sedan instead of simply calling him on the phone, actually seeing the caller ID 'Holmes, M.' sparks an unpleasant rush of adrenaline.

It's amazing how many catastrophes his mind can conjure in the few seconds it takes to answer the call. "Hello, Mycroft? Is Sherlock okay?" The ensuing pause is long enough to make his mouth go dry. "Mycroft?"

"That's not an easy question to answer, John."

Mycroft's voice contains no alarm, just its usual bland condescension, and John relaxes slightly. "What's going on?"

"I wonder if you would be available to meet with me this afternoon. I could send a car for you."

There's no need to ask why. Sherlock is the only point in the universe where he and Mycroft intersect. "I'm at my surgery. When did you have in mind?"

Pause. "There is already a car waiting for you in front. Just go out whenever you're ready. The driver will let me know when you're on the way." Another pause. "Thank you, John." He ends the call.

The adrenaline rush has dissipated, but not his concern. After thirty minutes of trying to focus on the day's workload, he concedes defeat and has his remaining appointments reassigned among the other GPs.

The familiar black Mercedes is across the road from the building, as promised. He asks the driver where they're going, and gets a polite smile in response, but it doesn't take long to recognize the route to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft on his home turf, replete with all the trappings of his power. This can't be a good sign.

Mycroft stands up behind his desk when John is escorted into the office by the PA with her ubiquitous Blackberry. She exits without comment and closes the door.

"Please have a seat, John. Thank you for coming." He waves at the chair in front of his desk as he settles back into his own and folds his hands on the desk in front of him.

John sits, feet flat on the floor, hands on the arms of the chair. "What's on your mind, Mycroft?"

Mycroft studies him for a moment. "You're looking well, John. How have you been?"

John inhales and holds it for a moment before he lets it out. He knows this ploy. Mycroft is testing his mood. He answers the banal question with a politely neutral smile. "I'm fine, Mycroft. Thank you for asking. And you?"

Mycroft's left eyebrow lifts briefly. "That's good, John. I'm glad." He sits back and rests his head against the high back of his chair. It gives his head a slight backward tilt which makes his gaze appear hooded and dangerous. "I understand you and my brother have been in touch since his return?"

John keeps his expression neutral. "You can imagine my surprise."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft's smile is thin and brief. "I would have preferred that he give you some advance warning, but..." He tilts his head. "You know Sherlock."

"I used to think so." He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and laces his fingers together at his waist.

Mycroft leans forward, arms resting on the desk. "I can appreciate that you're angry with him, but there were very good reasons for everything that happened."

"I'm not angry, Mycroft. I'm tired. Are we finished here?" He sits forward and looks at his watch, then puts his hands on his knees. When Mycroft sits back in his chair and doesn't respond immediately, John's gets to his feet. "Nice catching up. Do I need to call a cab or...?" He starts for the door.

"Please sit down, John."

He turns to look back at Mycroft, left hand on the door knob. He frowns. "Is that an order?"

Mycroft smiles. "Orders are not preceded by 'please'." He gestures to the chair John just vacated. "Just give me ten minutes. The car will take you wherever you wish to go after that."

John looks down for a moment, hand still on the knob. He huffs and straightens, shoulders back. "Ten minutes." He returns to the chair and sits practically at attention.

Mycroft's smile hasn't slipped. "Thank you, John. I appreciate your willingness to hear me out."

John holds up his right hand, palm facing Mycroft. "Let me save us both a lot of time." He lowers his hand to his knee and fixes Mycroft with a steady gaze. "I told you that I'm not angry with your brother, and I meant it. I'm tired, Mycroft. Tired of the deceit and the drama and the uncertainty. My tolerance is all used up. So, if you're trying to put me and Sherlock back together, you're wasting your time. There are just too many pieces missing."

Mycroft folds his hands on the desk. "You're saying that the reasons for what happened don't matter to you? That no matter how justified Sherlock's actions were, you aren't willing to move past it?"

John lifts both hands and lets them drop. "I can't believe anything he says, Mycroft. That used to apply only to you. Having both of you lying to me is too much. I moved on. Sherlock needs to do the same."

"He was obeying my orders, John. None of what happened was his choice."

John snorts at that. "Please. Nobody can make him do something he doesn't want to do. Not even you. _Especially _not you_._ I'm not asking for explanations. I told Sherlock the same thing. He made me watch him die, and then he kept up the lie for two years while I-" He ducks his head for a moment. "Nothing could justify that."

Mycroft studies him silently for a long moment. "When I called to ask you to meet with me, your first thought was that something had happened to Sherlock. You were quite concerned. I heard it in your voice."

"I never said I don't care what happens to him."

Mycroft continues, "Suppose I actually had been calling to tell you he was dying, and he wanted you to come and forgive him? Would you tell me you've moved on?"

He's not quick enough to hide his reaction. Mycroft is manipulating him, and he knows it, but the flash of pain was immediate. It was also visible, going by Mycroft's satisfied smirk. John levels his voice. "Cheap shots are beneath you. What do you want me to say?"

"Sherlock had been out of contact for a month when I finally found him in a prison in Serbia being starved and tortured. He hasn't entirely recovered, and I'm concerned about the unfortunate timing of this current issue with you. Even Sherlock has limits. I think this has finally exceeded them."

"_You_ found him." Of everything Mycroft just said, the implication that he personally went in to get Sherlock out is what shocks him.

"Is that so surprising? Whatever you may think of me, John, I would not abandon my brother. I went undercover and brought him out." Mycroft studies him. "I have another hypothetical for you. If I had come to you when I was about to leave for Serbia to rescue him, would you have come with me?"

"You know I would." His voice is tight. "Why didn't you?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "That opportunity has passed, but the one you have before you is just as important. He doesn't have the strength right now to take a loss like this, John. What will it cost you to give him more time? He followed my orders because he knew your life, and the lives of two other people, depended on it. Whatever was wrong with the plan is entirely down to me. Don't punish Sherlock for doing something that was harder for him than you will ever know."

John meets Mycroft's gaze. "That's exactly the problem, Mycroft. In a nutshell. I never know what's going on until it's too late. If you want me to walk back into the line of fire, you have to tell me everything, not just what you think I need to know. If you trust me with your brother, you have to trust me with the truth. All of it."

Mycroft finds himself faced with a unique dilemma. He has never in his life shared his fears for Sherlock with another living soul. Not with their parents. Certainly not with Sherlock himself. To reveal them to John would give him proof of a weakness he only suspects. He would have to trust John with not only Sherlock's life, but his own. Sherlock had followed his lead, and the consequences of Mycroft's mistakes have fallen on Sherlock alone. Mycroft can make himself vulnerable to John in hope that it will buy time to pull Sherlock back from danger, or he can continue to protect himself as he has always done.

"John, this will take much longer than the time you've allotted. Would you be able to extend your visit a bit?"

* * *

Judging by Mary's expression when she opens the door for him hours later, he looks as drained as he feels. He slows down long enough for her to pull off his coat, then heads for the kitchen and the cabinet above the fridge. Mary follows him a moment later.

"John, what's happened? What's wrong?"

There is something in the oven that smells Italian. He's sorry he won't be able to eat. Leftovers later maybe. He pulls down the bottle of scotch and grabs a glass from the dish rack in the sink.

"John?"

He sits down at the table and opens the bottle. "I just spent three hours in Mycroft Holmes's office." Three fingers of scotch. That's all he's going to drink this time. Just enough to settle himself.

She sits down across from him. "Why?"

"I need to think." He sips and savors. Slowly. "I'm alright, Mary. I will be."

"John, please tell me what's happened. You look ill."

He frowns. "Do I? I'm not, honestly. Mycroft wanted to talk to me about Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Is he alright?"

She sounds genuinely worried, and that makes him smile. "He gets under your skin in a hurry, doesn't he?"

She smiles. "I would have to say yes."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches his face for a moment. He's getting a headache, and the scotch isn't going to help. "I told Mycroft I was tired of the deceit and the drama, and if he didn't tell me the whole truth about the last two years that I was done." He looks at her. "So he told me."

She stares at him for a moment. "Do you think he told you the truth?"

He doesn't have to think about it. "Yes. Actually, I do. It cost him. A lot."

"So what happens now?"

He forgets about sipping and drains the glass. Then he picks up the bottle, gets to his feet, and puts the scotch back in the cabinet. He turns around and plants a kiss on Mary's cheek. "What happens now is that I have to deal with what he told me. And then I have to see Sherlock." It won't be tomorrow, or maybe even the next day. But soon.

Her smile warms him from the inside out. "Do you want some dinner? The lasagna's almost ready."

He shakes his head. "Sorry. I'll think better on an empty stomach." He hears the words in Sherlock's voice, and it makes him smile.

* * *

End of Chapter 16


	17. The Scorpion and the Frog

Author's note: Sincere thanks to Jolie_Black and sevenpercent for wisdom, guidance and at least one sound talking-to where the chapter began to skitter off the tracks a bit. One note about the term 'waffling'. It seems that in American English, it means what I meant (being indecisive), but in Brit English, it's 'talking a lot of nonsense', which doesn't fit at all. Please read that one word with an American accent. Thank you. Now, on you go. :-D

* * *

The prospect of digging out his kit to stash the cocaine last night had been more than he'd wanted to face, but he can't leave the vials in the bedside table drawer where he put them instead. Not with Mrs. Hudson's gentle determination to keep watch, even after all this time. He's on all fours next to the armoire trying to prise up the floorboards the kit is hidden beneath, and the process is giving him too much time to think about what he's doing. By the time he's extracted the metal lockbox and brought it up to the bed, he's waffling. Stow the cocaine, or use it?

_Why am I not surprised? _

"Because you expect to be disappointed."

John's voice has been annoyingly persistent since Bahnsen left. At one point, he'd woken up on the couch hearing Bahnsen's words in John's voice. It was actually that combination that had put the vials in the drawer. He'd taken the coke back to put it in the kit, then decided to use it instead, and been immediately ganged up on. Last night, it had stopped him.

_Put them in the kit and lock it away. Better still, pour it down the sink and toss the whole thing. _This is all John.

"Forgive me, and I'll think about it."

_You don't give a flying fuck what I think. You never have. So don't use me as an excuse. _

Not true. He doesn't care what anyone else in the world thinks, but John's opinion matters to him. _John_ matters to him, and it had happened so subtly that he never realized how much until it was too late to back away. It's an immutable fact like the sun rising in the east. The earth turns. John means everything.

Bahnsen knows. Why Mycroft would have told him is a mystery, but he must have done. The Aussie didn't come up with the little parable about a tragically dead friend on the spot. That took some prior thought. So Mycroft is worried enough about where Sherlock is headed to hire Bahnsen to...what? Stand in for John? Keep him from flying off the rails?

Too late.

_Where's this gonna end up, then? Do you want to die for real, you bloody selfish bastard? You didn't do enough damage the first time?_

"It wasn't my idea, John."

* * *

John is sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of strong coffee, a page of scribbled notes, and his laptop. Mary has gone to bed, and the rest of the flat is dark. He knows she wants to help him sort it out, but he needs to do this on his own.

Mycroft did tell him the truth. He's as sure of that as he can be, but he's also sure that it still wasn't the whole truth. There are pieces that don't fit. If ever there was a puzzle that called for Sherlock's talents, this is it, but he's beginning to believe that even Sherlock has been kept in the dark about a lot of things.

When John had confronted Mycroft with Kitty Riley's 'revelations' that night, Mycroft had done a convincing job of looking very guilty. Looking back, John considers this to be the first inconsistency. Mycroft has many talents, but acting isn't among them. (That's Sherlock's department.) He has the Ice Man down to a science, but break through that, and what you see is real. That whispered 'Tell him, won't you?' as John was leaving in disgust was a convincingly heartfelt apology to his brother. Mycroft told him today that he and Sherlock had planted the seeds of that story when Mycroft fed the information to Moriarty while he'd been in custody. So, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock was surprised by the article. If Mycroft's apology was as heartfelt as it had seemed, then what was he apologizing to Sherlock about? Not about leaking his life story. Sherlock was in on that. Then what?

John types into his laptop on a fresh document: 1. Mycroft's apology to Sherlock.

Mycroft said that when Moriarty began the game with Sherlock, it wasn't the first time MI-6 had heard of the criminal mastermind, but they'd done no more than monitor his activities. He said Sherlock had come to him after the pool confrontation, and Mycroft had given him the plan to fake his own death. It would give him the best possible cover from which to conduct surprise attacks on the network. This is the second inconsistency. For a man who scoffs at coincidence (the universe is rarely so lazy, he's heard Sherlock quote Mycroft more than once), it should have raised considerable alarm that this same criminal mastermind had suddenly developed an intense interest in his brother. It should have screamed 'trap'.

John has his own theory, and it explains Mycroft's guilt. What if Mycroft had put Sherlock in Moriarty's path, the same way he did with Irene Adler? Instead of reacting to Sherlock's request for help, what if it was just part of his original plan? Mycroft would have reasonably assumed then that pushing Sherlock toward Irene Adler would be equally successful.

John types: 2. Mycroft set up Moriarty

Mycroft admitted that he has been watching over Sherlock his whole adult life, using the resources of MI-6 to help keep his genius but largely oblivious-to-threats brother alive. That's an excellent excuse for the kind of surveillance Sherlock has railed against all along, but it could also be an effective means to drive his brother where he wants him to go. Mycroft would need a constant flow of information to gauge the success of his manipulation efforts. What better way than to simply watch and listen? Even Sherlock will acknowledge that Mycroft is the smarter Holmes brother. Mycroft admitted that he has surveillance in the flat that Sherlock will never find.

3\. Surveillance as information gathering not protection

John never allowed Sherlock to explain why he'd kept him in the dark. Sherlock's comment about being afraid he would 'say something indiscreet' had seemed to tell him that the rest of the plan would be filled with similar examples of Sherlock's lack of trust in him, and he didn't want to hear it. With what he's learned from Mycroft, and with the questions it poses, he needs to hear that explanation now. All of it. And they need to compare notes. Put the full power of that brain on the problem and find out what's really been going on all this time.

It can't be at 221B for obvious reasons. And not here. In fact, it can't be any location that Mycroft may expect them to meet.

It's after one in the morning, but he doesn't think this can wait. He left Sherlock last night in a dark mood, and he's been worrying about it. Especially after talking to Mycroft, he's beginning to believe that Sherlock is as much a victim as John is. Mycroft told him today what had happened in Serbia, and what Sherlock had been doing for the entire time he'd been gone, including the elimination of several of Moriarty's men. To John's knowledge, Sherlock had never killed anyone before, but Mycroft dismissed his concern about how that might affect him.

_'Don't be naive, John. Of course he killed people. It's a war, and not all of us can just treat the wounded.'_

John had bristled at Mycroft's implication. He didn't get PTSD from 'treating the wounded'. He knew what it was like to take lives as well as save them, but he hadn't had to commit murder at his brother's bidding. If Sherlock is feeling the effects of being tortured on top of the trauma of the past two years, what John said to him must have felt like the last straw.

Which brings him to Mycroft's motivation for wanting John to stay with Sherlock to 'just give him time to adjust'. John had asked him outright.

_"As I said, John, he's not strong enough to deal with a loss like this right now. He always relied on you a great deal. Coming back to find that you want nothing to do with him is a serious blow."_

_"You make me sound like the faithful family retainer."_

_"I would have thought what he's done for the past two years would have made your importance clear, John. He did it all to save you."_

No. This can't wait until morning. Not another moment.

* * *

Sherlock has the syringe in the vial, pulling back the plunger, when the screen on his phone lights up with John's face and then starts to vibrate. It actually makes him smile. John's timing is improving. He pulls the needle out of the vial, places both on the nightstand, and picks up the phone.

"Hello, John. Forget something?" Casual, in case this is a friendly call, but easily interpreted as sarcasm, if it's not.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

"We did talk, John. You remember. You were here."

"Ok, maybe I deserved that," John says tightly. "You can tell me to piss off afterwards, but we need to talk first. I'm on my way there in a cab. Watch for me and come down."

"Why not just come up? We can pick up where we left off."

"No. Not there. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He clicks off.

Sherlock puts the phone back on the bed, puts the vials and the syringe in the kit and closes the box. When John's cab pulls up in front of 221B, he's already out front waiting.

The passenger door pops open and he gets in. John picks up the conversation without preamble.

"We need to talk, but we need someplace Mycroft won't have wired. That leaves out your place and mine. Where do you suggest?"

Sherlock gives John a look, then turns to the driver. "Take us back where you picked him up." Then to John. "Mycroft does not have your house wired. What's going on?"

John hesitates, chewing his lip. "I met with him today."

Sherlock sits back, pressing his lips tight to swallow his first response. _Think about what you're saying. _"Did you ask to talk to him, or did he initiate it?"

"He called me this morning, and sent a car."

"What did he want?" The first flicker of alarm tingles along his spine.

"The first thing he said was not to tell you that we talked, so this probably puts me at the top of his hit list." His smile is a little shaky.

"No, that would be my spot. You may be second, however." A thought occurs. "If you talked to him this morning, why did it take so long for the paranoia to set in?"

"It took me some time to put it together. It was a lot to digest." For some reason, this makes him smile. "Actually, I skipped dinner."

Sherlock glances at the cabbie and finds him watching them in the mirror. The man breaks eye contact immediately. "Let's hold off until we get to your house." It's always possible that John's paranoia is justified.

The suburban block, from what he can see in the dark, is tidy, well-kept and very... suburban. The cab lets them out in front of an average sized unit third from the end of the row. The light over the front door is on, but the windows are dark.

"Mary's asleep," John informs him as he unlocks the door and pushes it open. He waves Sherlock in ahead of him, then follows and closes the door.

There's a small light on in the kitchen, and Sherlock heads that way. John joins him, minus his coat, and starts making tea. With his back to Sherlock, he says, "Look, I need to get something out of the way first."

Sherlock pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits. He hasn't removed his coat or scarf, but then he hasn't been invited to.

John clears his throat and turns around, leaning against the counter, hands braced on either side. "I meant it when I said I forgive you, and I'm sorry I took it back. I was pissed off, and I had a right to be, but I did not have the right to take it that far."

Sherlock studies John's face and his posture, adds up what he's heard for the past half hour, and frowns at the implications. The tingle of alarm is growing. "What did Mycroft say to you?"

John looks down at his feet for a moment. "Pretty much everything that happened to you and everything you did while you were gone. At least, what he knows about." He looks up at Sherlock. "Are you alright?" The last part is strained.

Sherlock breaks eye contact for a moment, instantly so furious with Mycroft that he can't trust his voice. Desperation doesn't excuse this. "I'm okay." He had almost said 'I'll live'.

John nods, and turns back to finish the tea. When he sits down with two mugs and hands one to Sherlock, he's pursing his lips the way he does when he's got unwelcome news to share. "I've been trying to think how to say this, and I realized there's no good way, so I'll just tell you what I'm worried about and let you take it from there."

Sherlock puts down his tea. He can't anticipate the direction this is headed. What could Mycroft have told John to make him think his home is actually wired? Mycroft knows what would happen if Sherlock ever found out he'd gone that far. A 'weather eye' is one thing, but camera surveillance inside John's home would bring consequences Mycroft would never risk.

John takes a breath and exhales sharply. "I spent three hours with him this morning. After all this time wondering and not being able to find out what made you do it," John gaze flicks away on that, "to have all this given to me voluntarily, all at once, was a lot to process. I wrote some of it down as soon as I got home so I would remember the highlights, and then I couldn't get the thought out of my mind that I was missing something big.

"Mary went to bed, and I sat down here with my laptop and started running through it all, recording my thoughts. I finally put it together about an hour ago. And I called you because I didn't think it could wait.

John takes a deep breath, and then starts speaking at deduction speed. "Sherlock, I think your brother set Moriarty on you in the first place so you would take up the cause and do exactly what he knew you would do. I think he deliberately put you in the path of 'the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen', to quote him directly. I think he tricked you, and he should burn in hell for what it cost you."

Sherlock studies him silently, wondering how much to say. Keeping secrets has destroyed so much of what they had. Telling John everything could well take away what's left. "Did he tell you that the plan started right after we met Moriarty in person for the first time at the pool?"

John leans forward, forearms on the table. "Yes, but I think his plan started well before he let you in on it."

Sherlock sits back, head tipped slightly down and to the right. Watching John closely now. "While it's tempting to go along with your theory and gloss over my own part in it, I'm not innocent." He smiles faintly. "I wouldn't need to be forgiven if I were."

John shakes his head. "You're not innocent, Sherlock. Neither am I, but you did what you had to in order to save lives, mine among them. If I had known that..." He chews his lower lip.

"If you had known what was really going on, no one would have been able to stop you from looking for me," His voice is soft with certainty, and John nods.

Sherlock looks past him. "For what it's worth, I came to the same conclusion as you a few months ago. Moriarty didn't stumble onto me by chance." He smiles at John's stunned expression. "I appreciate your outrage on my behalf, but it's not really a surprise, when you think about it. I'm a tool to him. I've known that for a long time. Did you really think the issues between Mycroft and me were nothing but sibling rivalry?"

John shakes his head slowly. "How can you have anything to do with him?"

"He's my brother, John."

"Sherlock-" John seems momentarily lost for words.

"I know how hard this must be for you to believe now, but he does care about me. I'm the only person on earth he does care about, and he knows he's done some major damage to the only relationship he'll ever have. It's a high price to pay for safety. I didn't think he knew how high, but his getting in touch with you, and what he told you, tell me he knows now."

John looks down for a moment, then up at Sherlock. "You know you can't trust him."

"I've never trusted him. I never will. But I won't allow him to be harmed. I'd do whatever I had to do to prevent that. Does that make sense to you at all?"

John sits back and takes a sip of his tea, makes a face. "Cold." He puffs out a breath. "I understand what you're saying. I just don't get how you can feel that way. Not after what he's done. He doesn't deserve you."

Sherlock shifts his focus to the clock on the wall over John's head. "Yes, he does. We deserve each other."

John shakes his head. "No. You don't deserve what he's done to you. If you really want to piss me off, just keep heading down that road. He's nothing like you, and thank god you're nothing like him."

Sherlock drops his gaze back to John. "But I am, John. I learned a lot from him, good and bad. He may have set Moriarty on me, and he may have put me in the middle of Moriarty's network, but he never intended me to take it as far as I did. My mission was to locate the network nodes, infiltrate and report. He didn't know I planned to take them down myself until it was too late to stop me, and he didn't ask me to kill eight people in the process, or get locked up in a Serbian prison.

"I made those decisions on my own. The blame doesn't fall entirely on Mycroft, and none of it falls on you."

John ducks his head. Shakes it, then looks up at Sherlock. "Do you want to know what I thought when you came back? After I got over the shock, I thought you had hared off for two years on a lark. I was too pissed off at you to think straight." John bites the inside of his cheeks, sucking them in for a moment. "I should have given you a chance to tell me what happened. For all the times I wished you back-"

Sherlock picks up his mug and drinks down the cold tea. He looks at John. "I don't think an apology is enough, but I'm offering it anyway. I'm sorry, John. I've never meant anything more in my life."

"I know you mean it, but you don't owe me an apology, and I mean that. The only thing I need from you is a promise that you will never lie to me again. I can take anything but being kept in the dark."

Sherlock smiles. "You're asking me to go against a lifetime of conditioning at the hands of a master," John smiles back, briefly. "but I promise I won't lie to you again. Not even if I know you would want me to."

"I will never want you to lie to me."

Sherlock bites his lip. "Then you have my word." He pushes the chair back and stands. "I think I want to walk for a bit." He holds out his hand, and John shakes it, then holds for a moment before he lets go.

They walk to the front door, and John starts to open it, then stops and looks at Sherlock. "One more promise. If you're ever in any kind of trouble, you have to call me. We're not going to see each other every day, and I want you to know that I'm always here." He looks down. "You know what I'm saying."

Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment. "I will, John. I promise. Stop worrying about me." He opens the door and steps out onto the porch, then turns back. "I'm really okay. I need you to leave Mycroft to me, John, and do your best not to let him know what you're thinking now. He's the same person he's always been. Trust me to know how to handle him, and we'll all be okay."

"I will." John starts to close the door, but stops. "Don't get lost on the way home. I _will_ come after you this time."

"I'm counting on it."

It's foggy and drizzling. Sherlock raises his face to it as he starts walking, taking it all in and smiling into the dark.

* * *

End of Chapter 17


	18. A sliver of sunlight

Mrs. Hudson has been threatening to host a welcome-back-from-the-dead get together for days and has apparently realized that hell will freeze solid before he agrees on a date. She has just informed him that the party will take place this afternoon at one. The notice is far enough in advance to allow him time to dress, but too brief to permit cancellation.

"I could just disappear for the afternoon and allow you all to celebrate my absence," he threatens on his way to shower, but he can't put the snark into it that she deserves. He's resisting out of habit. Seeing his friends is actually an appealing thought.

She has already begun scrubbing the kitchen table within an inch of its life, apparently intent on using it to hold food, of all things. "You just get ready and behave yourself. These people have missed you terribly. The party is for them, not you," she calls over her shoulder without looking his way.

He closes the door with enough emphasis to maintain his image, then smiles as he turns on the shower.

When he comes out into the living room dressed in his black suit, the sparkling kitchen table is laden with covered platters and bowls. He wanders over and lifts the foil on the nearest platter and sneaks a tidbit, then heads to the window on the right to check the crowd. The front page of the Daily Mail this morning included the news that Sherlock Holmes not only discovered Lord Moran's terrorist bomb plot but personally disarmed the underground bomb. The media frenzy in front of 221B has returned with a vengeance.

The party is due to start at one. At 12.40, Greg Lestrade comes bounding up the stairs followed by Phillip Anderson.

"Sherlock," Anderson begins, beaming like a groupie on the red carpet, "I can't stay, but I had to come for a few minutes to say, um, how sorry I am." He holds out his right hand and sobers as he meets Sherlock's gaze. "I truly am."

Sherlock shakes his hand for the first time in his life. "I saw your website, Phillip."

Anderson brightens. "Really? Did you like it?"

It's exactly what John had asked about his first blog entry, A Study in Pink, and run head on into Sherlock's sulky wrath. John had walked out of the flat and been gone all night, leaving Sherlock to wonder for the first time if he'd said too much.

"Interesting theories," he lies to Phillip with a smile. "Great title." That much is true.

Anderson's smile falters. "I can't stay. John's coming and..." he glances at Greg. The smile comes back. "I can't tell you how great it is to see you." As he's going out the door, he says almost to himself, pumping a fist in the air, "I KNEW it."

Sherlock gives Lestrade a questioning look. "He has a problem with John?"

"Other way round. John has no use for him or Donovan, for obvious reasons. They give him a wide berth." He claps his hands together and then rubs them in anticipation. "So, I heard there was going to be champagne."

Mrs. Hudson appears at that moment, laden with a tray of nibbles to add to the table. "Greg, could you come help me with something?"

Sherlock wonders for a moment why she didn't ask him instead, and then he hears footsteps on the stairs. John and Mary come through the open kitchen door and get hugs from Mrs. Hudson as she heads down the stairs with Lestrade in tow.

Mary sees him by the window and comes straight for him, arms wide. He hugs her, watching John still standing in the kitchen doorway. They haven't spoken since the late-night talk at John's house three days prior, and Sherlock is sensing an awkwardness in John that surprises him.

"Sherlock, it's nice to see you," Mary tells him, then smiles over her shoulder at John.

John looks down at the floor, and the pause is long enough to make Sherlock's breath hitch. But when he looks up again, his smile is worth the wait.

Mary gives Sherlock another squeeze, then lets him go, watching the look that's passing between him and John. The smile is apparently contagious. "Come sit down, and I'll get you both some champagne."

Sherlock stops her with a hand on her shoulder. "I'll do it. I'm the host, remember? You and John have a seat."

John heads for the couch where Mary has claimed a spot. He passes Sherlock on his way to the kitchen, and pats him lightly on the arm. It's the John-equivalent of a bear hug, and it makes them both smile again.

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he's bringing out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Greg and Mrs. Hudson have returned to the kitchen with more food. He takes the phone to the bedroom. It's Mycroft, pleading for a reprieve from the matinee of Les Mis that he agreed to take their parents to. When John comes down the hall toward him, he hangs up on Mycroft in mid-whine.

"Come on. You'll have to go down. They want the story."

"In a minute." When he passes John in the narrow hall, the look they exchange would have set Mrs. Hudson off on a happy tangent, even with Mary and John being engaged, but it's as much relief as affection. After things have been so dark for so long, even a sliver of sunlight can be dazzling.

When he walks by, Mary is showing Mrs. Hudson her engagement ring to coos of delight. "Oh, a spring wedding!"

Sherlock heads for the window to check the crowd out front, and Mary's voice follows him. "You _will_ be there, Sherlock."

"Weddings. Not really my thing," but he glances back at her and winks, which makes her smile.

He's not entirely sure what to make of Mary Morstan, but there's no question that John loves her. She certainly smiles more than any human being he's ever met, and it's contagious. John seems to break out with one every time he looks at her. Sherlock imagines that smiles were in very short supply before John met her, and that's all he needs to know for now.

The throng of reporters has grown. He hears the door open, followed by Molly Hooper's cheery greeting. He turns from the window, glances at John to let him know it's time, and walks toward Molly and her...

"This is Tom, everybody." She beams at Sherlock and back at Tom.

John is standing to Tom's right, smothering a smirk with limited success.

Tom looks enough like Sherlock that it's noticeable to everyone, with the apparent exception of Molly. Sherlock walks over and shakes Tom's hand, noting that the slightly taller man seems just as stunned by Sherlock's resemblance to him. Perhaps he suddenly sees the point of the coat and scarf that Molly no doubt gave him as gifts. Sherlock walks between them and out the door. He waits for John, tying on his scarf in his customary fashion, one which Tom has mysteriously mimicked.

John joins him, still smirking. "Did you uh..." He nods back toward the flat.

"I'm not saying a word."

John sobers, slightly. "No, best not."

John asks him about the bonfire and when he's going to find out who put him into it. It's an excellent question, but who did it isn't as important as why. The 'why' will always be the same, when it comes to threats against John. The 'why' is that Sherlock is back. John was safe until his own personal albatross returned from the dead. The rest is just detail.

_Okay, just stop it now. You're not the cause of everything in the world, you know. Rein in that ego._

It's the first time he's ever experienced his 'inner John' when the original is right in front of him, and he wonders if he's suddenly acquired the ability to actually read John's mind. His reaction must show on his face because John's eyes narrow a bit, and Sherlock busies himself with his scarf as he heads down the stairs.

"I don't know who was behind all this, but I will find out. I promise you."

John follows a few steps behind. Sherlock is halfway to the door before he realizes John has stopped on the stairs and is looking at him placidly.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this."

Sherlock makes a vague inquisitive sound, pulling on his gloves.

"Being back. Being a hero again."

"Oh, don't be stupid." The easy banter they used to exchange is still just out of reach, and he frowns to himself at how that came out. He's very much out of practice.

"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it."

The smile in John's voice is audible, so Sherlock isn't surprised when he turns to look at him and sees it. "Love what?"

"Being Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean."

"Sherlock, you aren't gonna tell me how you did it. How you jumped off that building and survived."

John doesn't care how he did it. He's already said so. What he's really asking is why Sherlock let him suffer for two years, and there's still no good answer to that question. Maybe there never will be. "You know my methods, John. I'm known to be indestructible."

"No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave."

"I should hope so."

"I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you."

He turns. "I know. I was there."

"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."

He knows. He's heard the words in his head, in John's voice, for two years. The tone changed over time from the heartbreak of that moment at the grave, to the anger he deserved, to the disgust he deserved even more, to the indifference he'd imagined John would have moved into by now. What he had never expected was the way John sounds now: relieved to be able to lay down a burden he's carried for too long. Giving Sherlock his blessing to lay down his own.

Sherlock puts everything he felt that day, and every day since, into his reply.

"I heard you."

* * *

End of Something Broken - please see Epilogue for author's notes and acknowledgements.


	19. Author's Notes and Acknowledgements

Author's Notes:

First, thanks to everyone who read and especially those who let me know what they thought. Every word was appreciated.

The sequel to this story is "Something Borrowed". As of today, 28 March 2015, I have posted 7 of the 10 chapters I believe it will include. I expect to have the story completed by the end of April, and probably well before that.

My deepest gratitude to Jolie_Black and sevenpercent for their wisdom and guidance, invaluable suggestions, encouragement and support. I truly could not have done it without them. Any awkwardness or errors that remain in the story are no doubt where I dug in my heels and disregarded their counsel.

Thank you so much for reading. Please join me for "Something Borrowed", and please let me hear from you. It's the only payment we get for all this, and every word you share is worth its weight in gold.

~GhyllWyne


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